


Wolves Howl & Dragons Roar

by Lord_Bloodraven



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, R Plus L Equals J, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-05-07 12:41:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14671329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lord_Bloodraven/pseuds/Lord_Bloodraven
Summary: What if Ned Stark had eloped with Ashara Dayne during the Tourney of Harrenhal?Instead of dying at the Tower of Joy, Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Gerold Hightower end up parting ways, with Arthur Dayne going north and accompanying his sister and the Lord of Winterfell along with the Crown Prince while Ser Gerold decides to travel to Dragonstone and go east with the last known living Targaryens. Years later, Jon does not join the Night's Watch and follows his father south when he is named Hand of the King.An alternate story about events that would shift due to unfulfilled alliances and new enemies emerging from where there once was none.Jonerys centered but will be a slow build-up for a while.





	1. Chapter I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic is a mixture of book and show, so appearances of characters will shift
> 
> This is my first fanfic. Never written one before so there may be a mistake or two, though I'll try to fix them when and where I can. 
> 
> Some events will happen as they did in the books and show but will diverge so hopefully you stick around.

**_Eddard_ **

 

It seemed that regardless of what he tried to do, sleep would refuse to come to him. He lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling of the lord's bedchamber, staring at every crack and crevice that was engraved in each stone and wooden plank used to build the ancient stronghold of Winterfell.  It was said that Winterfell had been built by the founder of House Stark, Brandon the Builder. It was said that he received aid from giants, who had also aided him in building the Wall. Once he finished building his castle, he became known as the King of Winter or King in the North and ruled over the dominion of the north as its king. It was from then on that each King of Winter that ruled after Bran the Builder added a different section of the castle to better defend it from those who would oppose House Stark.

 

Even the feel of his wife's bare body buried into his side served him no good. He could feel the soft curve of her plump breasts pressed up to the side of his bare chest. Ashara's breasts had not always been so... full. Ned recalled when he first came to know her many years past, she was a tall and slender woman, no older than seven and ten. He recalled that her breasts were small but firm.  _Oh, how the times have changed you, my love, though I cannot say I would protest the change._ Perhaps that was due to his beauty of a wife giving birth to five northern children to him. He could hear every soft breath she took as she slept on without a care in the world. But perhaps that was more due to the fact that for the past week or so, she had been at Bran's bedside, watching over him and his condition. She was exhausted from her countless nights of vigilance over Bran. It had taken every ounce of strength for Ned to convince her to join him in their marriage bed, and the moment that her head touched her pillow, sleep took her without hesitation.

 

Ned studied his wife a bit more as sleep continued to elude him. The last he had seen of her hauntingly beautiful violet eyes, they were bloodshot and strained and swollen from all the tears that fell from them. Most of her days consisted of waking from what little sleep she would allow herself and continue to sit at Bran's bedside until he woke. She would leave his bedside long enough to bathe and change into fresh clothes but then would return to his side.  _Though I can't say I blame her. If I could, then I would join her in her griefs and sorrows but I cannot. I am the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. I was named Hand of the King._

 

 

Since Bran's fall, he and the king's party had remained for almost another fortnight. Robert had been kind and offered his sympathies to him and offered to remain in Winterfell for as long as Ned needed, but Ned could not ask for the king to remain here. His duty remained in the south and to the seven kingdoms. Ned could not ask for Robert to remain here while the Lannisters lurked among the capital.

 

The thought brought to mind the letter that arrived south from King's Landing. The scroll had been sealed with the blue wax of House Arryn. Inside, the letter had been written and signed by Jon Arryn's widow Lysa, yet Ned thought the situation had been queer.  _The last time I had even spoken with Lysa Arryn had been when her father, Hoster Tully, intended for me to marry his eldest daughter, Catelyn, in order to seal the alliance that had been set forth by my father, Rickard Stark._ But the initial betrothal that had been struck had been for Ned's older brother Brandon to marry Catelyn, not Ned. Safe to say that Hoster Tully and his daughters, along with Jon Arryn had been surprised to hear Ned refuse the offer. They were even more surprised to hear that Ned was already a married man.

 

Of course, it was the quick thinking of Jon Arryn that saved the alliance from crumbling. Yet Lysa had not seemed all that fond of Ned after the whole ordeal. So it seemed all the queerer when a raven arrived with a parchment baring her signature. The parchment spoke of how the widowed mother had suspected that her late husband had been murdered and accused the Lannisters of the heinous crime. The whole ordeal only served to raise his wife's suspicion about going south.

 

_"Ned, please listen to me," Ashara pleaded. "This is only a reminder that the people of the south cannot be trusted. Why would the Lady Arryn care to warn you about the Lannisters? It serves her no purpose."_

 

_"What do you mean it serves her no purpose? Shara," Ned asked in an irritated voice. "She is a grieving widow. She was the wife of Jon Arryn. A man I considered a father. She mayhaps wishes to warn me so that I do not meet the same fate as Jon and mayhaps uncover the truth of the Lannisters involvement." He walked the hearth in their shared bedchambers and stared into the flames. He took in how the flames glowed brightly and felt them give him warmth._

 

_"Yet the whole situation makes little sense." Ashara rose from her seat on their featherbed and wrapped her slender arms around his middle from behind. Even standing at his full height, he only stood less than half a head taller than her. She truly was like none other. "Lysa Arryn has no prior meaningful connection to you. She has only met you once when you were supposed to wed her older sister. She holds no love for you." She tugged at his middle and forced him to turn and face her. She raised her hands and took his face in them. "I know you do not want to hear this and I understand that it is painful to hear, and I know you wish to see the good in everyone, but I tell you these things so you remain safe, Ned."_

 

_"And I understand your worry, Shara. Believe me." His words were soft and gentle. Ned never liked becoming irritated with his wife. He took no pleasure in it, yet, this was one of the few time that he had become so. He wrapped his arms around her and ran his finger through her dark locks. "I would wish nothing more than to remain here with you and the children. But Robert needs me. The kingdoms need me. And if the letter is to be believed, the Lady Lysa and her child have need of me as well." He placed a soft kiss on her lips, enlightened at how soft and full her lips were. Reluctantly, Ned pulled away and looked into her hauntingly beautiful violet eyes, the same eyes he had fallen in love with almost seventeen years ago. "I understand the fear and hesitation you hold, but I cannot sit by while the widow of a man I considered a second father asks for my help, puts her life at and the life of her only child at risk by sending me that piece of parchment," Ned said, nodding to the scroll on the dresser._

 

That night ended with them holding each other close as his departure loomed, yet that had been before Bran's fall. After the accident, Ashara insisted, and at times, begged for Ned to stay and refuse Robert. He recalled how his beloved wife spoke of the king and how he was undeserving of Ned's love and devotion. She held no great love for the king and the words she spoke of him reflected her feelings. In the end, Ned declared that he would ride south with his longtime friend, but promised his wife that he would return to her so that their family could be whole once more.The way that night had ended felt eerily similar to how this night had as well, with both of them lying together in the marriage bed, Ashara's warm and lithe body snuggled tightly to his person. 

 

Ned, along with the royal party would depart from Winterfell on the morrow, setting out on the kingsroad that would lead them all the way towards the capital. The thought of leaving his wife and children and his household in a time of sorrow greatly saddened Ned, though he understood more than others what must be done, yet that did not make his decision all the less fruitful. Now it was safe to say that sleep would not come easily on this night. All he could do now is pull his love tighter to his person and hope that he was making the right decision.

 

The next morning came swifter than Ned had anticipated. His ears were greeted by the sound of light knocks coming from the other side of his door. Ned began to disentangle himself from Ashara's embrace and stood from the featherbed. He looked back to his wife who seemed to just bundle up under the furs and continue with her much needed sleep. Ned looked out the window and saw that it was still somewhat dark out but with a faint shine of the sun's rays on the horizon. He quickly wrapped himself in his wool robe and answered the door. It was Vayon Poole, his steward who came to wake so he could be ready for their departure. Ned dissmissed the man after discussing what others errands remained to be done before their departure. When all was settled and Ned dismissed the man promptly, he turned to the task of dressing himself for the long journey ahead. When he turned around, he found his dornish beauty of a wife staring back at him with piercing violet eyes. Her hand held onto the end of the furs which she held to her bare chest as she watched him while the hand extended out to reach for him.

Neither spoke as Ned closed the distance between them in a full stride and crashed his lips with hers. Ned felt her hand snake around the back of his neck and pull him down onto the featherbed. Ned lied on his back as Ashara straddled him, with her legs on either side of him, and broke the kiss abruptly as her hands flew to where Ned's robe was tied. She quickly undid his the tie along with the laces of his breeches and helped his manhood spring free.

 

"Shara..." he panted, trying to gather his thoughts as her soft hands grabbed hold of his cock and pressed it to her smallclothes. As he struggled to speak his mind, he noticed a smirk on his wife's face as she began to pump his length painfully slow. "We must hurry, wife." His words were not lost on his wife as Ashara quickly rid herself of her smallclothes and sheathed herself on Ned's length.

 

"Sha... gods... " His mind could not focus as he felt his wife begin to lift herself from his cock, only to slam herself down once more, causing him to groan in pleasure. Ned hadn't realized he had closed his eyes until he opened them once more, only for them to meet Ashara's lust filled violet ones, which almost seemed black in the moment. Ned sat up and brought his lips to hers an wrapped his arms around her slender frame.

 

"Mhmm... Ned... love..." Ashara muffled, trying to break their locked lips long enough to breathe. Ned's hand snaked down between where their bodies joined and began to focus on her clit, rubbing and making her moan into his mouth as their kiss continued. He felt her movements slow a bit and took the opportunity to take the lead. He began to pound into her cunt with no regard for who heard the sounds of their lovemaking. In no time, the room filled with the sound of their sweat-covered bodies slapping together and their combined moans of pleasure. "Ned... I'm... I'm..." It was all she could say before she reached her peak.

 

To at least make an effort to be decent, he brought her lip back to his in an attempt to stifle her loud moans of pleasure as his dornish bride shuddered as her peak crashed. He followed soon after, grunting into his lover's mouth as he emptied his seed deep in his wife's womb. He felt himself soften yet made no move to pull himself from Ashara's warmth. His arms remained wrapped around her body as he felt her body go limp and rest herself on his shoulders. Her face remained buried in his neck and her fingers running through his hair as he held her.

 

"Come back to me, Ned." Her whispers could hardly be heard as she spoke them into his neck, yet Ned heard each and every word as if they were being screamed at him. "Promise me. Promise me you will return to  _us_... to  _me..._ to  _our_  family."

 

 _Promise me._ Those two words. The words he had engraved within himself as a reminder of the promise he made long ago. And now, another who he loved asks him to make a promise to them.  _Promise me, Ned. Promise me._ He shook the memory away and turned his focus back on his wife. Her eyes. The eyes he had almost instantly fallen in love with the moment their eyes locked, back all those years ago. 

 

"I promise," he whispered into his wife's ear as he let them both fall back into the confines of their marriage bed, hoping that there remained time for sleep to take them both one last time before he departed. Ned felt himself finally slip out of her warmth, with the silent and distant thought that they may have made a child once more. With the feel of his wife's lower half, exposed to him, it became rather easy for sleep to come and take him.

 

_____

 

Ned watched as the king's court and retinue begin to make their way out through the main gates of Winterfell, towards the kingsroad. Ned watched as his friend Robert led the retinue, with his Kingsguard knights and Baratheon guards closely behind him. The queen's carriage, alongside Tyrion Lannister's horse, rode near the front with them surrounded by a set of Lannister guards. 

 

Ned took one last look at Winterfell and the people around it. Everyone was there to see the king off, but in truth, most were there to see Ned and his household off. Ned returned from the godswood and go straight to his mount, readying him for their imminent departure. He turned and watched as Clarissa and Arya, girls of twelve and ten, kissed and hugged their mother and brothers farewell. He watched as Jory Cassel helped them and their direwolves into their respective litter where they could be watched over. Jon emerged from the entrance of the Great Keep with Vorian, Ned's eldest son, a boy of six and ten, and Theon Greyjoy, Ned's ward, a young man of nine and ten and eldest living son of Balon Greyjoy, at his sides. Jon seemed to be in good spirits as he emerged with the other two, though he had voiced on several occasions to Ned that he was not all that fond of the Greyjoy boy. Ned watched as he embraced Vorian and shook the offered hand of Theon Greyjoy before moving on to Ashara, who held Rickon, a boy of three in her arms.  Jon seemed to whisper something to Rickon as all that could be heard throughout the courtyard were Rickon's loud giggles. Before long, Ned watched as Ashara wrapped Jon up into an embrace, whispering something in the boy's ear before breaking away and placing a kiss on his cheek. Jon bowed and made his way to his mount, a black courser, that stood alongside his albino direwolf Ghost.

 

Ned finally made his way towards his sons and wife as his household began to exit through the main gates of Winterfell. Ned was met with Vorian, who approached him and wrapped his arms around Ned, squeezing him tightly. "I'll miss you, father."

 

"And I, you, son," Ned replied returning the gesture before breaking the hug and tilting his son's chin up to look at him. "Vorian... you are the Lord of Winterfell now. Understand that this means that you must comport yourself with dignity and be the one to lead our people in my sted." He watched as his son nodded dutifully. "You are a Stark of Winterfell as much as you are a Dayne of Starfall. Both are ancient houses that command great respect. I need you to become the lord that you were always meant to be, Vorian. Can you do that for me, son?"

 

"Yes, father," his son dutifully. "I will make you proud."

 

"I've no doubt you will, son. Look after your brothers and mother. They will need you just as much as you will need them." Vorian gave a silent nod and stepped aside. Ned then gave him a half smile and moved to embrace his wife and youngest son. "Shara. Rickon." The young brown-haired boy of three eagerly jumped into Ned's grasp and wrapped his small chubby arms around Ned's neck. "Oh, how I'll miss you so much, Rickon." Ned tickled the boy and reveled in his son's small and innocent giggles. "Watch out for your mother and your brothers, little one. They will need you now more than ever."

 

"I will, father," Rickon's little voice said. "Me and Shaggydog will protect them. I promise." At the mention of his direwolf's name, a black beast came trodding from the godswood alongside another grey wolf and took their places besides their respective masters.

 

"That's good to hear." He hugged his youngest one more time and passed him to Vorian who stood close by with Theon at his side. Ned and Ashara watched as both boys took a few steps back, giving them some privacy. 

 

"You've said goodbye to Bran?"

 

Ned could sense the irritation in her voice. Ashara had come to accept his decision yet that did not make her any happier with it. "Yes. I pray that the gods have mercy on his young soul and let him live."

 

"Mayhaps he would have a better chance if his father were here to overlook his condition." 

 

"Shar-"

 

"I know. I know. I don't want to fight with you. And neither you with me." Ned could sense the sadness in her voice. "I just wish you could stay here."

 

"And I would like nothing more," Ned said, taking her face in his hands, "but the realm would not be safe if what the parchment spoke of to be true. Neither you nor me nor the children would be safe."

 

Ashara pushed his hands away from her face and immediately wrapped her arms around Ned and brought him in for a kiss. She made sure not kiss for long and Ned rested his forehead on hers. "I love you, Ned," Ashara whispered to Ned as he took the time to remember everything about his wife: her face, her body, her eyes, her hair, her voice, her scent, even the way she had held each and every one of their children. "Come back to me, love. I want you and our children. Our whole family. Understood?"

 

Ned gave her a firm nod before kissing her once more. "I understand."

 

 

 

**_Arthur_ **

 

"Too slow, Jon," Arthur called out as he was able to get a hit on Jon's thigh. "You cannot let your guard down for a moment. If I actually wanted to cause you harm, that smack on your leg would have been a slash from my sword, which would have caused your defensive stance to falter giving me, the opponent, the opportunity to finish you off without thought."

 

Jon grunted in frustration and took a seat on the ground. His albino direwolf Ghost came and sat by Jon, laying his head on Jon's lap. Jon began to run his hands through the great beast's fur and lowered his head in defeat. "What have Ser Rodrik and I told you time and time again?" Arthur waited for Jon to answer his question. Jon looked up at Arthur and sighed in defeat.

 

"Do not let emotions cloud your judgment and influence your movement," Jon answered in. The wolf kept his head on Jon's lap.

 

"Correct," Arthur said. "I have known a great many swordsmen that were gifted with a blade but let emotions cloud their judgment which led them to an early grave." Jon shook his head in acknowledgment and stood up to his full height, with Ghost following his lead. The wolf, well... he was only a few moons old but he had the size of grown hound. It amazed and frightened Arthur at the thought of how big the beast would get. Maybe he would one day reach Jon's height, or more frighteningly, his own. Arthur was still a head taller than Jon, but it did not bother Arthur was a man grown, a knight of three and eight. Jon was barely a boy of five and ten. He would have plenty of time to grow. Especially considering  _his_  father. He just hoped that the wolf would seize to grow at one point.

 

"One of these days, I'm going to beat you, uncle," Jon said. "Just you wait." The statement made Arthur chuckle and Ghost barked in agreement. Arthur padded the boy on the shoulder. He liked the boy. He reminded Arthur so much of his late  _friend._ He remembered when Arthur had first approached Jon about having him refer to him as "uncle." Every one of Jon's siblings referred to Arthur as uncle and that was because he was the older brother of their mother, Ashara Dayne. Yet Jon thought of Ashara Stark as his mother and Ashra thought of Jon as her own son, so it was not too hard to convince Jon to refer to Arthur as "uncle."  

 

"Keep telling yourself that, lad," Arthur said. "A great many a swordsmen have tried. But who knows? You could mayhaps be the first."

 

"Maybe after I beat you, I'll be the first non-Dayne to wield Dawn and use him in battle," said Jon as he began to gather his belongings.

 

"Don't get carried away, young one. You have much to learn. You are good. Fast, quick, adaptive," Arthur complimented the boy's swordsmanship. "But you still have much to learn. You have the potential to be one of the greatest fighters the Seven Kingdoms have ever seen. Gods know that with that direwolf," he pointed to Ghost who stood, watching them and wagging his while tail, "you're already frightening enough. But that's Ghost's doing, not yours."

 

"Hey!" Jon exclaimed. "I am just as fierce as Ghost here," he waved over Ghost who ran to Jon and tackled him to the ground. "Maybe not as quiet and swift, but just fierce."

 

The boy's words made Arthur chuckle and Ghost began to lick Jon's face.

 

"But enough of that. Come, Jon. Let us get back to the Inn. I have built up a hunger that can only be sated by some roast duck and boiled ostrich eggs, and I am sure Ghost would love to have some time to hunt some of the local game around these lands." Arthur added as he began to walk up the river, towards the direction of the Inn. Jon then pushed off the wolf and got to his feet, before following Arthur closely behind.

 

Both he and Jon had been training since after they had broken their fast with Lord Stark and Arthur's nieces, Clarissa and Arya. His younger nephew, Brandon, had intended to come on the journey south as well, but a few days before the royal party meant to depart, Bran had been found lying on the ground at the base of the Broken Tower, located in Winterfell. The fall had forced the eager young lord to remain in Winterfell. His nephew's fall had been an unexpected turn of events that made Ned rethink about traveling south with the king. Ashara had pleaded with Ned to remain with her and not go south, but Ned argued that Robert had need of him as did the realm. Arthur understood Ned's dilemma better than most.

 

Before the king's arrival at Winterfell, a raven had arrived from King's Landing that informed Ned and Ashara of the death of Robert's first Hand of the King, Lord Jon Arryn. Jon Arryn had been Lord of the Eyrie and named Hand when King Robert took the throne. Lord Stark had been close with Lord Arryn, being fostered at the Eyrie when he was a young boy. In the Eyrie was where a young Eddard Stark met a young Robert Baratheon who was the heir to House Baratheon. Along with the news of Lord Arryn's death came another raven signed by Lysa Arryn, Jon Arryn's widow. She wrote to Ned and Ashara, warning them both of how she suspected that Jon Arryn had been poisoned and that she suspected that it had been the Lannisters. In the end, Lord Stark decided to ride south with Robert after the king named Ned, Hand of the King. 

 

But then came the news of Lord Stark's son and his fall. Ashara argued that he had to remain and that he was needed more in Winterfell alongside her and their children. Ned had come to Arthur and asked for his counsel. Arthur recalled how troubled Ned had been when he came asking for counsel.  _Family or Duty._ Those were the choices that Ned had been given. Ultimately, he chose duty, to ride south. Ned could only pray to the Old Gods and ask that they spare his son and let him live.

 

It wasn't long then when his sister came to him and pleaded for Arthur to ride south alongside Ned and act as his sworn shield. Arthur agreed to ride south. They left soon after, with Jon tagging along, after being convinced by Ashara to go with his father and act as a protector to his sisters. He took up the role eagerly.

 

Arthur and Ned had not heard back from Winterfell in almost a moon's turn since they had left. When they had departed from Winterfell, Bran was still in a deep sleep, to which Maester Luwin was not positive that he would come out of. Ashara dismissed any notions that the boy would die. She was insistent that he would wake. Arthur worried for his sister, as well as for the youngest Stark, Rickon. Hopefully, Arthur's sister would not forget her motherly duties and care for her youngest child. He understood that this was a difficult time for all of them and that she needed time to grieve over her injured son but that did not mean that she should neglect her other son, who needs her as much as Bran does. With Arthur deep in his own thoughts, he neglected to realize Jon had been speaking to him the entire time. He turned his attention back to Jon.

 

"I'm sorry, Jon. I was lost in my own thoughts. What were you saying?" he asked.

 

Jon sighed in frustration at the notion of having to repeat himself. "I was talking about how Arya has been pestering me to teach her how to handle a sword. She really wishes to learn. And I really believe that you and I should speak to father about allowing her to learn. She really wishes to learn and believes she could become the next Visenya Targaryen. Also, I'm growing a bit irked by Clarissa's constant praise of the crown prince and how comely she believes him to be."

 

"Now Jon, let your sister enjoy herself," Arthur began. "It is not every day that a daughter of Winterfell is betrothed to the Crown Prince and you know as well as I that Clarissa has dreamed of one day marrying some high lord and going to live in his castle somewhere down south." Arthur watched as Jon stiffly nodded in agreement. "And as for Arya, why is she so insistent to learn to swordfight?" Arthur asked. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think she was your  _Aunt_ Lyanna reborn.

 

The statement brought a smile to Jon's face. "Father said something similar, a few moons back. He wished Arya was not so stubborn and headstrong. He said that she has a hint of what his father, Rickard Stark, called wolf's blood."

 

"Aye," Arthur responded. "That she does, nephew, that she does." Both men walked along the edge of the river in silence for a few moments until Arthur spoke again.

 

"Speaking of your sister's, where have they gone?" Arthur asked, curious that he hadn't seen at least Arya. She usually liked to tag along with him and Jon for Jon's lessons. "I have not seen them since we broke our fast, this morning."

 

"Before we left the Inn, I had seen Clarissa and her friend Jeyne Poole go off with the prince," Jon answered. Arthur noticed Jon's face tense at the mention of Clarissa's would-be-husband. He could understand Jon's dislike of the boy.

 

The Prince was not a kind person, to say the least. The boy was three years Jon's junior but walked as if he was the wisest and most gallant man in the Seven Kingdoms. He had met the prince back at Winterfell. Arthur had graciously introduced himself to the  _heir_  to the seven kingdoms. The boy had looked at Arthur with disgust and contempt. Prince Joffrey commented that Arthur was just as much an oathbreaker as his uncle, Ser Jaime Lannister, the  _Kingslayer._ The last words that the prince had spoken to Arthur were, " _You should have died at the Trident, next to your beloved Prince Rhaegar, at the hands of my father. Consider yourself lucky, Ser Arthur and thank the Seven that my father chose to spare your life as he did with the old fool, Barristan Selmy."_ Arthur cringed when he recalled the arrogant prince's words, especially showing no respect for a man like Ser Barristan Selmy. He pushed the memory away, knowing that it would only serve to put Arthur in a sour mood. He shifted his thought back to the conversation at hand. 

 

"And what of little Arya?' asked Arthur. 

 

"When I spoke to her last, she-" Jon began but was interrupted when they heard shouts and loud grunts coming from up ahead. Ghost, who had been following behind them, ran ahead, in the direction of the shouts. Both he and Jon followed the wolf's lead and ran behind the beast. They came to stand by a tree, that was surrounded by tall grass blades and a few berry bushes, that shielded him and Jon from view. The direwolf, on the other hand, was more noticeable, due to its snow-white fur. Luckily the wolf had stopped before emerging from the bushes, which at least concealed him, to a certain extent.

 

The sight that beheld them when they arrived at the source of the noise, caused Arthur to release a breath he didn't know that he was holding. He visibly relaxed when he saw Arya grunting as she swung a wooden stick, which clashed with an older boy's stick. The boy had red hair, freckles on his face, and a rough face. He was likely a few years younger than Jon and just about the same age as Clarissa. 

 

Arthur and Jon watched as Arya and the red-headed boy swung there sticks and practiced sparring. Arya looked so much like her father, as well as Jon. She, just as Jon did, had dark hair, grey eyes and the long face synonymous with the Starks of Winterfell. She was the opposite of her other siblings. Vorian, Bran, Arya, and Rickon all had there parent's coloring, as both Ned and Ashara had dark hair, but it was Vorian, Bran, and Clarissa who inherited the dark blue eyes that were common in Daynes as well as Ashara's fair skin. Arya was the only one who had grey eyes, like her father, Eddard. But just as Arya was the only sibling to inherit the grey eyes, Clarissa was the only one of the five to inherit pale blonde hair, that was also common among Daynes. And little Rickon was the only one of the bunch that inherited his mother's purple eyes. A rare trait among Daynes, but not uncommon. Ashara, of course, had the eyes as did their distant cousin, Gerold, the Lord of High Hermitage.

 

Arthur decided that it was becoming late, he urged he and Jon to collect Arya and head back to the Inn when they heard two other voices join the conversation of Arya and the red-headed boy. Arthur and Jon saw Clarissa and her betrothed, Prince Joffrey arrive and begin to speak with Arya and her friend. Arthur could not hear what Clarissa, Arya, or the prince were speaking about, but he knew that it was not going well as he heard Arya shout something at Clarissa.

 

"Uncle, look," Jon said, pointing where his sisters and the prince stood.

 

Arthur turned his attention back to his nieces, only to see the prince raise his freshly forged sword, embroidered with gold and rubies and sapphires, to the red-headed boy's cheek. Arthur could not stand idly by and watch this sad excuse for a prince, abuse his power. He would not let it happen  _again._

 

 _"_ Jon, stay here. Do not argue with me. Stay here. If the prince sees too many people, he may lash out... erratically," Arthur said. Jon looked like he wanted to rebuff him but did as he was told and stayed hidden from view.

 

"My Prince!" Arthur shouted as he emerged from behind the grass and coming into view of the prince. He stepped closer to the children and when he stood before the prince, he dropped to one knee. "I believe it is time to head back to the Inn. The Queen, your mother, will become worried if you are not back before dusk." Without drawing attention to himself, he gestured to Arya with the hand that was at his side, for her to come stand behind him, in case the situation took a turn for the worse. "This butcher's boy is not worth your time and I am sure he meant no offense to you or your betrothed."

 

The prince kept his sword to the boy's cheek a moment, clearly thinking over Arthur's words. Finally, Joffrey brought the sword back to his side and sheathed it in its scabbard. "Hey, butcher's boy," the prince spat out. The butcher's boy turned to face the prince. "Consider yourself spared. The  _Sword of the Morning_ here makes a rather fine argument. I must be getting back to my mother, the Queen." The red-head quickly dropped to one knee, his face hoping that the prince would actually spare him. "If I ever see you strike my betrothed's younger sister, I will have your head impaled on a spike, which then will adorn the wall of King's Landing." The butcher's boy nodded his head vigorously. When all was said and done, the prince walked off, with Clarissa at his side, making their way back to the Inn. The butcher's boy released a breath that he had been holding since the beginning of the altercation. 

 

"Thank you, uncle," Arya said as she wrapped her arms around his still kneeling uncle. He hugged her back, visibly relieved to see his niece out of harm's way. 

 

"Little Arya," he said. "When will you not get yourself into trouble?"

 

"It wasn't my fault. Not really anyway, uncle. I was just playing with my friend, Mycah here, and then, out of nowhere comes the prince, putting his sword to Mycah's cheek, threatening him because he hit my arm with the stick."

 

Arthur saw his niece on the verge of tears so he cut her off and hugged her again. Arya buried her face in Arthur's neck and began to sob lightly. Arthur then got to his feet and carried Arya in his arms. She did not fight the gesture and allowed him to carry her. She was a small thing. A girl of nine, almost ten. She rarely showed anyone her tears, but at this moment, he saw that she could not help but cry silently into his shoulder.

 

"It's alright, Arya. It is not your fault," he said as he ran his hand through her dark hair. "Your friend, Mycah, is alright. Come we must get back to the Inn before the sun sets completely. And you... Mycah," he said as he turned to acknowledge the freckled boy, "Are you alright?" Mycah nodded at Ser Arthur but was to shaken up to speak. "Come with us Mycah. I will escort you back to your father." He waved over the for the freckled boy to follow. He came running clumsily and stopped at Arthur's side.  Arthur then turned his head and shouted to the tree where he had emerged from. Within seconds, Jon and his direwolf Ghost emerged from behind the tall grass and ran to him and Arya. And before long, another bark came from the tall grass, and another direwolf emerged. It was Arya's. She had named the great beast Nymeria, after the Queen that had conquered Dorne. The beast was big for a young wolf, as big as a dog but smaller than its litter-mate, Ghost.

 

"Come, children, let us head back to the Inn before the night arrives and leaves us at the mercy of bears and mountain lions." The kids nodded and begun to walk back to the Inn.

 

 

_____

 

 The day after the incident had come and gone. Lord Stark thought about going to the king and notifying him of his son's actions but then thought better of it. The King would not reprimand his child, especially if the queen was there to influence him. The actions of the prince had made Lord Stark and Arthur himself more wary of Clarissa's betrothed. The more they saw of this boy-prince, the less they felt he deserved to marry a beautiful and kind girl, like Clarissa, if not naive. Lord Stark had gone and spoken with Clarissa about maybe rethinking the betrothal, but she would not hear it. The girl was intent on marrying the prince and one day, become Queen and give the prince babies. The thought made Arthur visibly ill. 

 

They had left the Inn a fortnight ago and were a day or two from the capital. During this time, Lord Stark kept his children close to him or under the watch of Arthur himself, as he worried for their safety. Most of Arthur's time was divided by training with Jon, watching his nieces, or speaking with Ser Barristan. They had met Ser Barristan at the Inn when he and a few other Kingsguard rode north to meet the King halfway to the capital.

 

Both knights spoke about their lives since the Rebellion and how they have changed. Arthur hadn't seen Ser Barristan since they went to war during the Greyjoy Rebellion, almost a decade ago. The knights reminisced about their time in the Kingsguard and all their fallen comrades. Arthur wished that he could speak of the promise he had made to their beloved  _prince,_ but then thought better of it. It would not be wise or safe to let another living soul know about his  _real_  identity. They spoke about what could have been if things had been different. Arthur noticed Ser Barristan's hesitance when they first met again after all those years. No doubt that Barristan the Bold felt shame as he now served another king and failed to protect  _another._ But Arthur did not blame the man. When the prince fell, Ser Barristan's vows died with him. And the new king had pardoned him and let him live. He was raised to Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Arthur held no ill will towards one of his mentors. Ser Jaime was a whole other story, entirely.

 

Whenever Arthur came upon Ser Jaime, he saw what most other people saw, arrogance and entitlement. But only those who served with the knight knew the truth that lied beneath those shallow exterior. Arthur saw this once young boy, conflicted, shamed, beat down. He was once the most promising member of the Kingsguard, but now, he was the shame that befell one of the greatest Kingsguards to ever exist. From Ser Gerold to Ser Barristan to Arthur himself to Prince Lewyn Martell to Ser Oswell Whent to Ser Jon Darry. Some of the greatest knights to ever dawn the white cloak. Ser Arthur felt shame. Ser Jaime had forsaken his vows. The first to ever do so. Well, publicly, for that matter. Even Prince Aemon "The Dragonknight" gave his life to protect his vile brother, who also happened to be king, at the time, from an intended assassination. Aegon "The Unworthy" he was called. And  _unworthy_ he was. 

 

But there was a part of Ser Arthur that understood where the once young knight, had acted from. While most of the Kingsguard would rather cut out their own tongues than to speak out against their king, they all knew the truth.  _The Mad King_ had earned his name. He was one of the reasons that Robert's Rebellion had begun. If he hadn't burned Lord Rickard Stark alive, while his son and heir, Brandon, helplessly watched and strangled himself to death, maybe none of them would be here today. Perhaps if the Mad King called for the heads of Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon, perhaps the war wouldn't have started.  But the  _Mad King_ was not the only one at fault. Arthur had never come to ever say it out loud, but he knew the truth. He knew that his trusted friend and prince, Rhaegar, played a roll in starting the rebellion. He spoke against the prince's actions yet willingly followed him because of the love he bore for him.

 

But it helped naught to think about "what if" situations. The histories have been written and what's done is done. What mattered now was the present.

 

And presently, Arthur still had a duty. Not just to his prince, but to his family as well.

 

Arthur would do whatever he could to follow through on his vows and duties.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and questions are welcomed.


	2. Chapter II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, hopefully, many of you liked the first chapter. I went ahead and made some revisions to the first chapter of this fic so if you want, you can go back and read the updates as I also added another POV to that chapter and made some changes to a few characters.
> 
> *** I'd also like to point out that this fic will at times follow the plotline of the books and show but will begin to differentiate itself in its own way and hopefully many of you stick around for it.  
> Thank you.

_**The White Bull** _

 

The Lord Commander could not help but watch in disdain as Prince Viserys entertained the idea of marrying off his younger sister, the Princess Daenerys to some horselord of the dothraki in return for use of his army. He did not like the offer one bit. He said as much when the fat magister Illyrio Mopatis came to Prince Viserys with the offer. Gerold was appalled at the offer, yet it was not him who would decide the fate of the princess.

 

The yellow-bearded pentoshi had left them and the Princess Daenerys to speak in private when Gerold asked the prince for a moment of privacy to speak on the matter at hand before anything was set in stone. The prince nodded and dismissed the magister.

 

"So it would seem you don't approve of Magister Illyrio's offer," Viserys said in a lithe voice. 

 

The last living son of Aerys the Second sat at in a large cushioned chair behind a large black oak desk, dressed in a crimson and black velvet doublet, sporting his late mother's crown over his silver-blonde waves. His dark clothing in contrast with his pale skin as well as pale lilac eyes. He looked almost eerily similar to a young King Aerys, though not as handsome as King Aerys had been in his youth and not as charming, though he had become as much as was needed.

 

"If I may voice my opinion, my King," Gerold said, rubbing his wrinkled and calloused hand over the grey stubble on the lower half of his face. The prince gave a slight nod, signaling for him to continue. "I do not believe it is wise to marry off your only sister, the princess," Gerold gestured to the small and petite silver-haired girl who sat on the large orange-red velvet couch facing out the window adjacent to it, "off to a horselord whom you know nothing about nor understand his intent. Even less so because it came from the mouth of this pentoshi magister, your Grace."

 

"Magister Illyrio?" the Prince questioned. "He a trusted ally who was shown that he is loyal to House Targaryen and would not dare ruin the alliance that we have already begun to forge."

 

"But we know next to nothing about this Illyrio Mopatis. What reason would he have to help you reclaim your father's throne? And I mean no offense, your Grace, but what does he earn with this endeavor?"

 

"Illyrio is no fool," Viserys proclaimed in a slightly irritated voice. "He understands that I will not forget those who helped me reclaim my family's birthright when I come into my throne. He has every reason to help us."

 

The prince rose from his plush seat behind the large black oak desk and moved to sit beside the silent princess who seemed to try and hide her discomfort in the matter. "That being said, I understand your hesitance Lord Commander, and mayhaps you're right in worrying for my sister's safety, but know that I would not anything happen to my sister who I know full well is a daughter of House Targaryen and the blood of Old Valyria. You taught me the importance of family, good Ser, and I haven't forgotten it." He turned and took one the princess' small hands in his, "Dany... you understand why this alliance would be beneficial to us. For our family." The young girl of four and ten looked at the prince with eyes of violet eyes almost reminiscent of amethyst.

 

"I don't..." the princess struggled to finish her thought. "I don't want to marry  _him._ I don't want to be _his_ queen _."_

 

 _"_ But Daenerys," the prince began, "this is the opportunity you and I have been waiting for. You've told me countless times that you wished to go home. Well... here is an opportunity for us to return home." The prince's eyes were beginning to fill with a silent rage that Gerold seldom saw in the prince.  _And yet I've seen it one too many times._

 

"But I don't know this... this... Drogo." The princess' voice was light and timid. "What if... what... if..."

 

Tears began to run down the princess' pale cheeks as she struggled to get out her words. Without hesitation, the prince drew his younger sister into his arms and held her tightly. "Oh... I'm sorry, Dany if I have frightened you." Prince Viserys words were soft and warm and kind as he spoke.

 

It always truly amazed Gerold at how the prince's voice could go from on the verge of irate one moment, to being caring and sincere the next. Even the prince's eyes showed remorse for upsetting his younger sister. It was in moments like these that Gerold categorized Viserys as an _enigma_. His older brother, Prince Rhaegar had been one as well, but he was of a different type.  _While Rhaegar had been more melancholic and brooding and slow to anger, Prince Viserys was more impatient and impulsive and over-emotional at times._  Growing up, Gerold had done his best to try and temper the prince's less-than-favorable tendencies. Gerold could understand at times regarding Viserys' frustration with the hand that life had dealt him, but it was no excuse for acting the juvenile king at times. 

 

The timid girl seemed to take comfort in her brother's words as Gerold saw her try to bury herself deeper into his hold. Before she could deepen the hug though, the prince pulled away and kneeled before the princess. Her eyes were red and swollen from her tears yet wide from astonishment. "I understand that this prospect is terrifying and you know naught of this savage,  _Drogo,_ but I promise you that this will be the best way for you and me to reclaim father's throne." The silver-haired princess nodded slightly yet seemed no more eager to go through with the proposal. "But if it truly does frighten you so, know that regardless of what action we take, I will not let whoever it is, hurt you... even this  _Drogo._ The Princess Daenerys seemed to perk up once she heard her brother's declaration and gave him a half smile. "But I want you to understand that if you agree to do this, then our chances for returning and reconquering our lands from the Usurper increase that much more. You understand that it is my duty to retake father's throne. Help me reclaim it and I'll promise you, we will go home."

 

The room went silent after the prince finished speaking. All eyes were on the young princess who seemed to be silently debating what root to take. She looked from her brother to Ser Gerold and back. Gerold studied how the prince's eyes remained on the princess and were unflinching. There was fear in her eyes but some of it seemed to dissipate after hearing her brother declare that her safety would be his first priority. Finally, she gave a small nod, indicating that she would agree to the magister's proposal, yet at no moment throughout, fear never completely faded from her eyes. Gerold could do naught but curse silently in dismay.  _Gods, please watch over the princess._

 

The prince shot up in ecstasy and pulled the princess into a hug and kissed her repeatedly on her pale cheeks. Gerold watched as Viserys pulled his sister in closely and whisper something into her ear before pulling away. He finished by assuring her that her safety would be paramount and that he, along with Ser Gerold would be at her side every step of the way. _No harm will come to her, not while I still draw breath. I swear to it to all those that have passed into the afterlife_. The prince then dismissed them both, he himself sitting back behind the large desk and calling for one of the servants outside the chambers to call for the magister and inform him of his decision.

 

Ser Gerold was left with the task of escorting the princess to her bedchambers. On most nights, she would be quite lively as she would speak to him about her day and what her hopes were for the future. But not this night. On this night, as Gerold led her through the large corridors of the magister's manse, he noticed her body was stiff and rigid, with her eyes and mind somewhere else. Once the pair arrived at the door of her chambers, Gerold disentangled himself from her arm and looked at the princess.

 

It was moments like these that the princess truly reminded him of her late mother, the Queen Rhaella. The thought was bittersweet, more bitter than sweet as the years passed, so he pushed the thought away before his mind lingered on it. He looked down at the short princess who seemed to be eyeing him closely.

 

"Ser?" the princess spoke softly.

 

"Yes, princess..." Gerold hadn't noticed that his mind had drifted.

 

"What is it your thinking of at this very moment?"

 

"Oh... uhm..." It seemed Daenerys noticed his drifting and occupied mind and decided she wished to find out. "I was just thinking of how much you resemble your mother, Queen Rhaella." With the aid of the enormous window that let the light from the moonlight and light a good portion of the hallway, and reflected off the princess' silver hair and violet eyes, she truly looked so much like the Dowager Queen. "Your mother would be proud of how beautiful you have grown and how mindful of your duty you are." His words seemed to have caused her to blush as her cheeks and neck began to flush red. "Not many young princesses, let alone girls of four and ten would agree to marry someone they do not know so that their family could survive. You are truly one of a kind. You truly are your mother reborn."

 

"I did next to nothing, Ser. It was my brother who befriended Magister Illyrio, and it was him who brought us this opportunity. I only agreed to do my duty to my house."

 

"And yet when your brother thrust the burden upon your shoulders, instead of refusing the offer outright and crying in your brother's arms, you instead, agreed to it and took it in stride. You are truly a princess of House Targaryen. You are the seed of Aegon the Dragon."

 

For a moment, the young girl was silent, her lips tightened as if refusing to speak. Before Gerold could ask what she was contemplating, the girl began to blush which seemed to deepen at his words and looked away in an attempt to hide her reddened face. Gerold wondered why she seemed hesitant to speak for a moment, but did not wish to upset the princess before bed so he let the issue go. "Thank you, Ser Gerold. But I must admit something to you." The girl looked up at Ser Gerold, deep into his rich brown eyes with her violet ones. "I only agreed to do my duty when Viserys assured me that you both would be with me at all times. I had begun to tear when he first spoke to me about the offer."

 

"And yet you willingly pished through your fear and willingly accepted your duty."

 

The princess was silent for a moment. Her face still held a tinge of blush on her face. "Is it... Is that true, Ser?"

 

"Is what true, princess?" Gerold's voice was gruff.

 

"Were you and my brother speaking truths before, about... about being there with me through the whole..."

 

Gerold could hear the difficulty in her voice when speaking of her new betrothal. "Of course, princess. I would sooner give my life for yours if need be than watch you suffer at the hands of such a savage. On that, you have my word, Princess Daenerys."

 

"Thank you," the princess said softly before closing the distance between them and wrapping her arms around his lightly armored body. He felt caught off guard for a moment but felt himself give in to the gesture and wrapped her in an embrace. "My mother was truly blessed to have someone such as yourself to watch and protect her at every turn, Ser."

 

"But of course, my princess." Gerold puffed out his chest, letting the encrusted three-headed dragon armor glisten in the moonlight. "I was the Lord Commander of your father's Kingsguard and I am still, under your brother's Kingsguard. I am sworn to protect your brother as well as his family until the day I die." His words seemed to reassure the princess all the more as a smile crept up on her face. "I may not have been there to save your father or your brother when they died, but I will make sure that I do not fail his children, the future of House Targaryen. That I promise you, Princess Daenerys, on my life as a knight of the Kingsguard."

 

_____

 

The nights seemed to always be the worst for Gerold. Memories of the past and dangerous future outcomes all hindered Gerold's ability to find sleep. When he first crawled into bed, he felt his mind ponder over the princess' words to him before they departed.

 

_"My mother was truly blessed to have someone such as yourself to watch and protect her at every turn, Ser."_

 

Gerold struggled with trying to process her words. Her words felt like he was being doused with wildfire and set on fire for his past sins. He did his best to push the thought away and shifted his focus to the real issue at hand: _the reasoning as to why this... this Illyrio Mopatis had agreed to support the last Targaryens._

 

Illyrio Mopatis is a magister from the free city of Pentos, who, according to himself, was once tall, lean, and handsome.  _Though I highly doubt most of that to be true, judging by his current size and fleshy face._ The magister was one of the wealthiest and most influential people in Pentos. The man was tall, but instead of a lean body, he sported one of the most enormous bellies that Gerold had ever seen and the man's breasts were perhaps larger than most women. Due to the man's size and lifestyle, he constantly walked around doused in heavy perfumes to try and cover the smell of his flesh. The pentoshi man had a yellow head of hair to match with a forked-yellow beard. The color faintly reminded Gerold of the hair color of the Lannisters, though Illyrio's hair was much more yellow than gold. _Traitorous_ _whores those Lannisters are._

 

Gerold, yet again, shook the thought away, knowing that thinking about the Lannisters and their treachery would only serve to anger him, in a time where he was trying to clear his mind.

 

But what truly boggled Gerold mind about the magister.... were his perceived motives. The Prince Viserys had met the fat man on one of his voyages through the Free Cities. Some years ago, Prince Viserys had decided that he could not wait another year more while the Usurper remained on the Iron Throne. So he decided then that it was time that he go and make contact with other influential people that could help him reclaim the Seven Kingdoms. Gerold had spoken against this idea, sighting that it was not wise to ask strangers for favors, but the prince ignored his suggestion and claimed that he had waited too long and the time was approaching to reclaim his "birthright." At first, Ser Gerold and the princess had accompanied him to his intended destinations but soon ordered them both to remain in Braavos when Gerold continued to suggest that they return to Braavos and wait a while longer. Safe to say that the prince was not pleased to hear his suggestions.

 

Most of the people that Prince Viserys had come to know had been wealthy merchants and traders and archons and essoi princes. Most wealthy families did not mind dining with one of the last Targaryens, mostly because they were considered the Blood of Old Valyria. But it seemed that once the wealthy grew tired of the prince's pleas, and at times, demands, they would deny him indefinitely and send him on his way.  _Mayhaps it was on one of these rebuffed offers was when the prince began to grow more impatient._  It was on one of these failed quests that the prince came to know and befriend this Illyrio Mopatis of Pentos. Yet the man's  _friendship_ was questionable at best.  _What does he have to gain by helping the last Targaryens?_  By now, the entirety of the known world had heard of the fall and near extinction of House Targaryen. Was _it by chance or something else that he met the young and eager prince on one of his visits to Pentos from Braavos? Why did he offer them hospitality when Viserys knew full well that they already lived a peaceful life up north, in Braavos, in the house with the red door?_

 

Princess Daenerys had been all but crushed when Viserys told her that they would be leaving Braavos and take shelter with this Illyrio. Gerold spent the majority of that trip trying his best to console the saddened princess. Gerold had not been skilled in the art of calming young children, but nonetheless, did what he could. _I was a second born son of Hightower. I was born to swing a sword and become a knight. My brother was the one who was meant to become Lord of Hightower and father children. But in_  that time he spent consoling the weeping princess, Gerold grew fond of the young princess and found that she was kind and strong. _It was silent strength she possessed,_  a strength she seldom displayed, _not unlike her mother. Rhaella truly had been strong to be able to survive the likes of King Aerys_. _A child with the strength of a grown queen_. And at times, because of her young beauty and quiet nature and family name, many forgot that's what the princess truly was... a child. Yet it seemed that there were some who did not see her that way.

 

On one separate occasion some time back, Gerold recalled overhearing the magister speaking nonchalantly to some unknown person about the desire he holds for the young princess and how he wished to take her to wife. It had been when the trio had first arrived in the manse and so Gerold had gotten lost while trying to find his assigned chambers. The thought had infuriated Gerold. He had been ready to separate the man's fat and fleshy head from his fat-filled retched body.  _But I was not a young knight who is eager to kill. No. I was- no, am a man of the Kingsguard and have served as its Lord Commander since the days of Jaehaerys the Second. I cannot act brash and impulsive, especially after the fat man offered him, along with the Targaryen siblings guest right._ Gerold quickly went to the prince to inform him of the magister's silent intentions but it seemed Prince Viserys would have none of it. He proclaimed that Illyrio Mopatis would never do that as it would destroy the newly forged partnership between them.

 

Gerold stormed out of the room in a rage and went straight to his chambers where he had decided that he wished to find solace at the bottom of a flagon of wine. But it was from then on that Gerold had decided to keep a close and watchful eye on the obese man and his small pig eyes. At times, Gerold would catch the magister staring at Princess Daenerys with lust-filled eyes, almost as if trying to undress the girl with his eyes. It would take every ounce of restraint in Gerold's boy to not draw his sword and drive it through the man's skull.  _I may be old, but I can still swing the sword on my hip better than most._

 

Though lately, the magister's eerie looks seemed to vaporize as the time passed. Illyrio's attention instead shifted to giving counsel to the young _King_ Viserys.

 

 _"King,"_ Ser Gerold snorted.  _Was that the first time I have referred to the prince as "king? Perhaps the first time when I am in my thoughts." Perhaps._

 

In truth, it wasn't just the shadowy and shady actions of the pentoshi that unnerved Ser Gerold. He was only partly responsible. The other part was the impatient and sometimes inconsistent mindset of the young Prince Viserys.

 

Prince Viserys Targaryen was a man grown, yet at times his mind seemed to show signs similar to those of his lord father. The prince had seen twenty-two name days; he who was the second born son of the late king, Aerys Targaryen, the second of his name. Gerold recalled how the boy had been born healthy and robust.  _He was so strong and hopeful then. It's a shame that he was forced into exile at such a young age. He was only a boy of eight._ To him, the sky seemed to have been falling, as if the world was ending. With his mother, the queen, heavy with child and then being shipped off to Dragonstone to keep them out of harm's way, being separated from his father and the older brother he idolized so much.  _Understandable that his world came crashing down when the news reached Dragonstone of the death of Prince Rhaegar and then his father._ Viserys soon lost his mother when she gave birth to the Princess Daenerys. The young prince did not even have time to grieve over his mother's still warm and lifeless body before he and his newborn sister were forced to flee the ancient stronghold. Both were then shipped off into exile before the Usurper's brother could arrive and murder them.  _It was a miracle that I arrived in time to travel with them. I nearly rode my horse to death from exhaustion by riding to the nearest port and finding a ship to sail to me to Dragonstone. And that day, the gods truly were merciful as I had arrived just as the ship was about to set sail. Luckily I still wore my white cloak and armour which helped convince the Targaryen loyalists that I was there to help. Ser Willem Darry had been the one who spoke on my behalf saying that I had always been a loyal servant of House Targaryen. With that, I had boarded the ship and set sail with the last scions of House Targaryen._

 

Sadly, Ser Will Darry would not live long enough to see the children grow up as died only five years after they had arrived in Braavos. Before he acted as one of the guardians of the Targaryen children, Ser Darry had held the position a the Master-at-Arms in King's Landing under Aerys Targaryen. Rumor had it that the Hand of the King at the time, Ser Tywin Lannister, had intended on naming his younger brother, Ser Tygett, to the position. But because of the king's known disdain for Tywin Lannister, he instead named Ser Willem to the position, as House Darry had been one of the most loyal vassals during his reign.  _And that move proved a superior one._ Ser Gerold at times wondered what would've happened if Tygett Lannister had been the Master-at-Arms at the time of the rebellion and during the sack of King's Landing.  _Would he have remained loyal to his rightful king or would he have acted as his nephew, the Kingslayer, and turned his back on the royal family? Would he have killed the king just as the Kingslayer did? Would he have allowed Tywin Lannister's dogs rape and kill Elia Martell and her two children?_

 

Gerold did not like thinking of that. He again shook the thought away and focused on the task that was Prince Viserys Targaryen. For a good five years, the task of mentoring the young dragon prince fell on him and Ser Willem.  _We did what we could, but we were no maesters or learned men or septons. We were warriors, men-at-arms, knights. We had been trained to kill our enemies, not rule over lands and kingdoms._ Both did what could be done in teaching and shaping the minds of a young and distraught Prince Viserys Targaryen and a toddler Princess Daenerys. But the task became more difficult when Ser Willem fell ill with a wasting sickness and soon died. I _n truth, Gerold found_ death a _relief as it spared the great bear of a man, any more pain. B_ _ut perhaps Ser Willem fought it off for so long only due to his unwavering loyalty to House Targaryen and the children._ _And then there was me._ It fell on Ser Gerold's shoulders to mold and guide the malleable minds of both scions of House Targaryen. 

 

The princess was sweet and kindhearted. She had flashed great potential for a ruling lady but... she was a woman. No kingdom or army would follow a woman. Targaryen or not. The people of Westeros still remember what happened the last time a woman tried to claim the Iron Throne.  _The battle between Rhaenyra Targaryen and her half-brother Aegon the Second._ Though in truth, the king at the time who also was the namesake of the young prince, Viserys the First, had proclaimed his daughter Rhaenyra as his lawful heir. But it was the actions of the Lord Commander and the king's wife that ignited the events that led to what became known as the  _Dance of Dragons._ From then on, no king or nobleman ever attempted to seat a woman on the throne.

 

Many things were learned during the Dance of Dragons. One was that a proven warrior and commander does not always make to be a fine politician.  _Then again, that lesson was learned when Jaehaerys the Wise named his old friend Ser Ryam Redwyne as his Hand, which in turn turned out to be a horrid decision._ To this day, Ser Ryam Redwyne is regarded as one of the worst, if not the worst Hand of the King in the history of the Seven Kingdoms.

 

And now that left the young Prince Viserys as the sole heir to the Iron Throne.  _Or so he thinks..._

 

It hadn't that long back that the prince ordered Gerold to address him as "king." It had stunned Gerold when Prince Viserys had come to him and told him outright that he was the king. The prince, in truth, had every right to believe himself the heir to the throne as he was the eldest and only living male of Aerys Targaryen. But there were times where Gerold would question Viserys' state of mind. Viserys should, by no means be considered mad, but at times, he has shown flashes of impulsivity and recklessness. One of the redeemable traits that he did show, was his unwavering care for his sister Daenerys, _though that may have more to do with me._ One day while the trio lived in Braavos, Gerold had unfortunately caught Viserys slapping his young sister once in a fit of rage.  _Why the siblings were arguing, I did not know. All I knew was that I could not allow Viserys to become his father. I took it upon myself to discipline the young lord by assuring that it was not kingly to strike a woman, let alone a younger sister. In an act of impulse, I struck the king and scolded him about what was right an wrong._  Viserys did not speak to him for almost an entire fortnight but eventually, he did learn his lessona and agrred to never do it again.

 

The way Viserys spoke to her about being at her side when she married the dothraki chieftain was proof enough that he remembered Gerold's words to a degree. But that did not make Gerold anymore happy with the betrothal then he had been before. And _I do believe there are other ways of obtaining an army, yet it was not my place to make this decision over the prince himself. I serve him and his family, I have no right to make decisions like this for him. Not while he has come of age, nor would he ever allow me._

 

It was times like those that made Gerold contemplate revealing the truth of the matter but would then think better of the situation. _It was not the right time to reveal a secret like this one. Potentially thousands could die if the wrong people were to hear of it. Varys, the two-faced lysene eunuch would perhaps find out in a week's time and inform the king of it._ Utter chaos and war would inevitably follow. The lone thought was enough to rouse Gerold from his intended sleep. As Ser Gerold rose from his featherbed, he felt his back begin to ache and his knees would creak constantly. He felt as if his back ached more with each passing day. His speed and quickness were virtually non-existent. And his strength had begun to wain, though he was still strong enough to remain a competitor for any and all who would dare challenge him. Regardless of the pain, he shook himself from his sheets and walked over to one of his few possessions in the world: his personal chest. It was a large wooden chest made from red oak with an encrusted iron latch.

 

He opened the chest, only to find a set of elaborate white armor with the three-headed Targaryen dragon engraved into the breastplate as well as on the shoulder pieces. Beyond that, there were a few mementos that he had kept over the years from his time in Westeros; the tip of an arrow that had pierced him through the hand during the uprise of the Kingswood Brotherhood, a smoke grey cloak cloak stitched with a white tower, the sigil of House Hightower, _his_ house; and lastly, what was left of Gerold's first sword that he had forged as a boy growing up in Oldtown. He shifted around the items in the chest until he found the intended item... a set of rolled parchments, tied together by a piece of string. Gerold then walked backed to his bed and sat at the edge before beginning to untie and unfurl each and every piece of parchment. His eyes skimmed over piece after piece of parchments until he reached the one he was aiming for. The parchment contained ink writing that was familiar to Gerold, as all of them did. He recalled the style of writing on each piece of paper, as he had seen that writing style for years upon years before his exile and remembered who exactly it had belonged to...

 

 _Arthur_.

 

Over the years, Gerold had kept little contact with the people of westeros, mostly due to the fact that he was still loyal to House Targaryen and the rest of the realm had either followed the Usurper to war or bent the knee after the fall of Prince Rhaegar, his children, and King Aerys.  _No, my watch continues as long as there is a Targaryen that still draws breath. And at this current moment, my vows have not been completed._

 

The vows of a Kingsguard are as serious as the ones that are said by the men of the Night's Watch. In fact, the founder of the Kingsguard, Queen Visenya Targaryen had modeled their vows after the vows of the Night's Watch and how the men serving in the kingsguard served for life and loyally.  _The only way for a man of the Kingsguard to be relieved of his vows was by death, preferably their own instead of their king. My watch has not ended, not while he lives... not while the true heir lives._

 

The last parchment he had received from Ser Arthur, his sworn brother, had arrived about three moon's turns past, informing Gerold of the status of the _boy_ and how he fares. The parchment mentioned how the boy had, for a time, considered joining the Night's Watch so he could earn some glory for himself. Gerold's hands tightened into a fist and thought about driving them through a nearby wall.  _If only the boy knew. If only he knew the truth of it all._ Gerold had read that scroll dozens of times since it had arrived, and each time he read it anew, his heart sunk a bit more each time. Just the thought of Prince Rhaegar's last son and heir forgoing all the rights and titles he was born to have, for an order full of thieves and rapers and cutthroats, truly _angered_ Gerold.  _If I was there with him now, I would've told him the truth long ago, and damn the consequences._ The one benefit that Gerold could take in stride was the fact that the _boy_ had gained a sense of honor similar to that of Ned Stark. For all his flaws and misgivings and his continued support of the Usurper, Eddard Stark was an honorable and good man. No one could deny that. It shamed Gerold to think that he thought the worst of Ned at one point in his life. But that was the past and it had been written.  _Though I can't help but wonder what would have changed if I had stayed there or what would have the boy become if Arthur and I had brought him east?_   _If only I was there..._

 

It was truly a bittersweet feeling when Gerold reread all the past missives. Arthur did never have a precise schedule for when it came to sending Gerold an update, but it always came, whether a fortnight, a moon, or half a year or so in between scrolls. Gerold would always wait patiently and anxiously for the next one, hoping to learn more of the boy he had sworn to protect. Every time Gerold thought about the prince he'd never met, who he had sworn to defend, he would always swear a silent oath to himself.  _I will see him and I will protect him and I will do whatever is in my power to bring the rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms to his true family._

  

 _____

 

A moon's turn had passed before the wedding was set to take place. The Targaryen siblings and Ser Gerold all thought they would have to travel somewhere far to where the celebration would take place, but instead of it taking place in some mountainous rocky terrain, Illyrio had them brought to an enormous manse that sat beside the Bay of Pentos, overlooking it. The manse had nine towers and high brick walls overgrown with pale ivy. When Prince Viserys questioned why a dothraki horselord had such a lavish and immense home in Pentos, the magister explained that it was because the magisters of Pentos had bribed the _khal_ with the manse acting as a gift, as to dissuade him from ever trying to sack the city. The logic made sense since Pentos had no walls nor gates to protect from an intended invasion. The  _khal's_ manse was truly a spectacle. And so now, here they were, along with forty thousand dothraki screamers hooting and howling as the feast went on with _Khal_ Drogo and Princess Daenerys sitting at the head of the feast.

 

Khal Drogo was by no means a small man. He was well over six feet tall, perhaps match the Usurper _,_  Robert Baratheon in size; copper-colored skin, black hair that was oiled and braided, the braid reaching the back of his thighs. The warlord sported a black beard that was long enough to be braided, as well as a scar over his left brow. He wore a gold medallion belt around his waist and horse leather pants along with horse skin vambraces. His chest was bare except for blue paint that was carefully painted over his shoulders in an almost ceremonial fashion. Over his stomach, he wore a piece of boiled brown leather, armed with a matching pair of daggers strapped to the leather sheaths.

 

It was said that Khal Drogo was a fierce and renowned warrior, not just among the dothraki, but amongst the whole of Essos. When cities spot his  _khalasar,_ or his horde, instead of sending out men to try and fight him, they instead offer him riches or land or slaves or all three so he could spare them. It was said that Drogo's khalasar was perhaps the largest in the land. Forty thousand dothraki screamers, each on horseback, each skilled with bow and arrow as well as armed with an arakh, a curved blade that was commonly used by the dothraki. The dothraki lived to raid and pillage as well as to add bells to their braids and signify their victories in combat.

 

Princess Daenerys, on the other hand, was Drogo's complete opposite. She was a pale-skinned petite girl with silver blonde hair and violet eyes. She had classical valyrian features, reminiscint of her Queen Mother, Rhaella Targaryen. On her left hand, she wore her late mother's ring that shined whenever the sun reflected off it. Gerold admitted to himself that she was a beautiful girl but never thought of her as anything but a princess and at seldom times, a daughter. Gerold, alongside the Prince Viserys, sat a few notches below the princess and her new husband, as they looked out over their wedding feast, to which at the prince had taken offense to until Ser Gerold and Illyrio Mopatis counseled him that it would not be wise to displease the _khal_ at his wedding feast. Prince Viserys reluctantly swallowed his pride and nodded, though only after Illyrio mentioned that the prince's actions could, in turn, hurt the newlywed princess as punishment for his disrespect.

 

Gerold had dressed elegantly for the event, or as elegantly as he could, as did the prince. Ser Gerold had decided to wear his kingsguard armor along with his white cloak for the occasion. The entire suit had been polished to perfection the night before so it would at least look presentable. Since Gerold hadn't had a squire since he left westeros, even less so in essos, it was Gerold who usually did everything himself, regardless of how mundane the chores were. The prince, on the other hand, wore a new black wool tunic with a scarlet dragon on the chest. On his hip remained the bejeweled longsword that Magister Illyrio had loaned him, as to try and give off a warrior's essence. And of course, Viserys wore his mother's crown over his silver hair, giving off a sense of royalty.

 

Ser Gerold eyes drifted back and forth and back as the feast went on. He was shocked and appalled to see two men fight to the death over the right to lay with a woman in the middle of the feast. It was the pentoshi who assured them that it was custom among the dothraki for men to be killed at a wedding. No less than three needed to be killed lest the event be deemed dull in the eyes of the Dothraki. Gerold's eyes went to the Princess as she was greeted and bombarded by guests and gifts. He noticed that there was a queer man that took a seat on the opposite side of the prince, alongside the magister. The man was not of Essos. He did not have the darker skin color that the people of Essos were known for. The man had brown hair that was receding as well as stubbly beard, blue eyes, and wore armor with a green surcoat over it, with a black bear on the front. He was a knight. A westerosi knight. Gerold tried to remember the sigil on the man's surcoat, a black bear on a green field.  _House... Mormont,_  he recalled. He's a _northmen_. But why would a northman be here, on the other side of the world, thousands of leagues from the North and Bear Island?

 

_____

 

"Ser Jorah Mormont of Bear Island," the man said as Ser Gerold went over and asked who the man was and what his purpose was in the presence of the Princess Daenerys and Prince Viserys. "I am here at the insistence of Magister Illyrio. He introduced me to the  _khaleesi_ and I've sworn my sword to the Prince's cause."

 

"King," Ser Gerold corrected as he eyed the northmen suspiciously. "But doubtless, you are a northman and last I recall, the  _Usurper's dog,_ Eddard Stark was Warden of the North and fought against the Targaryens. Your house is bannermen to his. Why would a northman sail across the Narrow Sea and pledge fealty to the family that his overlord fought to dethrone?"

 

"Ned Stark and I are both of the North, Ser," the blue-eyed knight began, "But we do not share common philosophies on who we can and cannot serve. I am no _dog_ to Ned Stark or Robert Baratheon."

 

"Fuck that," Ser Gerold spat out. "Ned Stark and the North were traitors to the crown and remain traitors as long as they continue to pledge fealty to Robert Baratheon."

 

The knight opened his mouth to protest but was interrupted by the presence of the rightful king, Viserys. "Ahh, Lord Commander. I see you have met Ser Jorah Mormont. He has sworn me his honor and sword to my cause. He says that he wishes to help me reclaim my throne."

 

"Forgive me, my King, but as I recall, the North fought to overthrow the rightful King, your father. He is not a man that can be trusted." Viserys waved off the notion and assured him that Ser Jorah was completely devoted to him and his sister and their cause. Of course, Ser Gerold could do nothing but accept his "king's" decree.

 

As the day went on, Ser Gerold watched as the princess, now  _khaleesi,_ it's what the dothraki called the wife of a great _khal_ , as she was led by her husband through the crowd of guests and to a pair of horses. One was a large red stallion that looked as fierce as a horse could look. And beside the large red one, there stood a smaller grey mare with a silver mane. It almost looked silver to the untrained eye. Ser Gerold watched as the northman whispered something to the princess before she mounted her mare. As the northman whispered to the princess, Gerold took notice of the apprehension on her face and decided to try and speak with her.

 

As he approached her, so did the prince who whispered something to her in a low voice that Gerold could not hear. Gerold took his chance and asked her if she still wished to go through with the marriage. The girl of four and ten looked at him as if he could actually do something, but as if reluctantly, declined his offer and began to saddle up before riding off into the sunset, at the side of her husband. 

 

As Ser Gerold watched the princess ride off into the distance, Ser Jorah approached him briskly and came to stand next to him. "I understand that you do not trust me, Ser. I will not argue that sentiment." Gerold said nothing, just continued to watch as Princess Daenerys and her husband ride off into the distance, hoping that she would remain in one peace. "But I am only here to advise and help the young princess and king, especially with their time with the dothraki. I have grown to understand the dothraki as well as speak the language. I believe I will be of use to you and the king in this time of need."

 

"Listen here Mormont," Ser Gerold seethed as he came to stand face to face with the blue-eyed knight, "I could give two shits for what you intend. But  _his_  grace has chosen to trust you and your judgment, but know this... if I find that you intend to bring any harm to the king or his sister, I will take your head myself. I may be an old man by every law of the land but I am still competent enough that I won't hesitate to take your head with one swing. Know that, _Ser_ Jorah." He shoved his way through the northman and walked away before he could respond.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and questions are welcomed.


	3. Chapter III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who have read the first two chapters, I want to thank you for at least taking the time to read it. Regardless if you liked it or not, thank you.
> 
> Hopefully, this chapter answers some questions that some people that read it, have had.
> 
> A reminder that I have no beta at the moment so there may be some mistakes littered throughout.
> 
> As always, feedback is appreciated.

**_Eddard_ **

 

 

 

_Fifteen Years._

 

It had been fifteen years since Ned had dared step foot in the wretched city that was known as King's Landing. His last visit had been less than pleasant. The streets were narrow and overcrowded and ill-maintained.  _The people were no kinder and would sell you off for just one gold dragon._ Fifteen years and nothing had truly changed about the city.  _Perhaps the smell was worse but at least a madman did not sit on the throne who burned innocent people for pleasure._

 

All in all, Robert had been a far better king than Aerys ever was, especially in his later years. But Robert's reign was for the most part, peaceful due to the diligence of the man he had chosen to act as his Hand, Jon Arryn. It had been the clever maneuvering of Jon Arryn during the rebellion that helped seal the alliance with the Riverlands with Robert and Ned.

 

Originally, it had been Ned's old brother Brandon who had been betrothed to Hoster's Tully's eldest daughter Catelyn. But as Brandon left Riverrun to meet their father who was on his way to Riverrun for his marriage ceremony, word reached Brandon about their sister's Lyanna's abduction at the hands of the Crown Prince. Brandon immediately changed course and rode south with a small host to the capital where he before the Mad King and  _demanded_  that Prince Rhaegar let Lyanna go. The Mad King then imprisoned Brandon and summoned their lord father to answer for Brandon's crimes.

 

Both Ned's father and brother perished in their meeting with the Mad King and with the death of Ned's older brother, so did the betrothal between the Starks and the Tully's.  _Or so I thought._

 

When both armies of the North and the Vale marched south and convened on Riverrun, both they and the Crown had been vying for the support of the riverlands, who at that point had remained neutral. That's when Jon Arryn acted and proposed a marriage pact between the houses of Stark and Arryn to the Tully's. Ned would take the place of his deceased brother and wed Lord Hoster's eldest daughter and Jon Arryn would wed the youngest daughter Lysa. The betrothals seemed to have been a match. That was until Ned informed them of his refusal to any sort of betrothal. Ned recalled the memory as vividly as if it had just happened...

 

*****

 

"Forgive, Lord Hoster," Ned said as he faced the graying haired lord who wore a dark blue and red surcoat embroidered with the leaping trout of Riverrun. "I cannot in all good conscience marry your daughter on this day, nor on any day following." He turned to face the shorter woman who stood at the man's side. Her hair had been deep auburn with beautiful blue eyes. Her skin was fair and smooth.  _Catelyn Tully was truly a beauty to behold and more, but she was not 'her' nor would she ever be_. "And you, Lady Catelyn. I beg your forgiveness."

"What sort of mummery are you playing, Stark?" Lord Tully asked in an irritated voice. "My daughter is as good a match as the Starks have had in centuries and a great beauty."

"And I cannot deny that claim," Ned began, "but I would ask you to speak to me with more respect than the tone you are giving me... my Lord." Ned's voice was iron and ice, wrapped in one as he stared down Lord Hoster's fiery blue eyes with his steely grey ones. "It pains me to tell you that I cannot honor the betrothal that was struck by you and my lord father. It would bring dishonor to all involved."

"You bloody northerners go on and on about your precious honor," the Lord scoffed, "especially you Starks." The Lord of Tully pointed a wrinkled finger at Ned and stared him down with eyes filled with rage. "Your father talked about how you were the more tamed and dutiful son compared to your gallant fool of a brother, and I  _had_  for a split second, half a mind to betroth my eldest daughter to you but then I heard more and more rumors of you. You were a pup compared to your brother. Your brother was the one who was born to inherit and lead the north. But now... when the pup's fortunes turn in his favor and he is being handed a beautiful bride, you refuse because you say it would bring dishonor." The lord spat at Ned's feet and began to pace around the room. "I ask... who would be dishonored if you were to honor this betrothal, hmm?"

 

Ned's inside had begun to rage and fill with a fire he had not felt since the news of his father and brother's deaths reached him. The way the man in front of him spoke of his family and the north and how little respect he truly had for them and Ned. Ned had half a mind to draw his sword and drive it through Hoster Tully's aged torso. He took a few moments to calm his nerves. Ned's growing displeasure must have been apparent as Lord Arryn spoke up and stepped in between the pair and tried to soothe the tense situation. He placed a warm hand on Ned's shoulder and gave him a look that said 'Comport yourself, Ned. You are a child no longer. You are a man grown.'

 

As Ned finally swallowed his anger and cleared his throat, he finally spoke. He stood straight and locked eyes with the tall and broad-shouldered man before him. "I would be dishonoring my wife," Ned stated triumphantly, "My Lord." He had almost forgotten his manners until he recalled the honor that the man before him questioned. "I would be dishonoring my lady wife."

 

Hoster Tully and his daughter looked equally aghast at Ned's claim. Ned turned his head to look at Jon who looked equally stunned. Ned watched as all those present processed his words. But as Ned's expected, it was Lord Tully who spoke first.

 

"What!!!" The Lord Paramount of the Riverlands' face was a crimson-red as he took a few strides forward to stand before Ned. He and Ned almost stood eye-to-eye, though the river lord was just barely an inch or two taller than Ned. "Do you think this is some sort of game, boy? Do you wish to play me for a fool?" Lord Tully's hand flew to the hilt of his sword and with the other hand, shoved his daughter away. "I am the Lord of Riverrun as well as the Lord Paramount of the Trident. My family can be traced back to the First Men. No man can dare dishonor my house and walk away unscathed."

 

"Do not presume to know what I intend, my Lord," Ned seethed as his hand went to the hilt of his sword but made no move to draw it. "And you've no need to speak to me about bloodlines. While your family was raised by Aegon the Conqueror to the title of Lord of the Riverlands, my family dates back to the First Men as well, yet we ruled as Kings in the North for thousands of years."

 

"And now here you are, Stark," Lord Hoster said, "you and Lord Arryn here, in the middle of a war. You come to me and ask for me to supply men and weapons to your cause and when I offer you a way to seal the alliance, you refuse by claiming that you are already married to some whore or lowly northern lord's daughter."

 

Lord Arryn and Lord Hoster's daughter gasped.

 

"Lord Tully!" Jon exclaimed.

 

"Father!" Lady Catelyn added in astonishment.

 

Without thinking, Ned threw himself at the Lord of Riverrun, not truly knowing what his intent was, only knowing that the outcome would not be a positive one. His hand had just grabbed hold of Hoster Tully's surcoat before Ned felt a strong pair of arms wrap around his middle and begin to pull him back. Ned grunted and kicked only for a moment or so until he realized what he had tried to do.

 

Once Lord Arryn felt him calm, he let Ned go and gave him the chance to explain himself. Ned took a deep breath and began to explain to all those present about his elopement with Lady Ashara Dayne and how they had wed during their time at the Tourney of Harrenhal. Ned told them how he had expected to inform his father of his wedding when they reunited for Brandon's wedding. He went on to explain that he and Ashara had talked about traveling the world together as neither were the first-born child of their respective houses.

 

"My... son... was born more than a year ago." Ned's face was quiet and solemn. He had wished to be there for the birth of his son and he had planned on traveling south before his son was born but decided to wait until after his brother's wedding to inform Lord Rickard Stark of his marriage. "Ashara named him Vorian for a past Sword of the Morning and King of the Torrentine. I have not had the luxury to be able to hold him in my arms nor be able to hold my wife since our departure from the tourney."

 

Jon Arryn acted as the man that Ned knew him to be. He closed the distance between him and Ned and wrapped him in a warm embrace. Ned felt as if he was being hugged by his father. Catelyn Tully gave him a kind smile and congratulations on his wedding and the birth of his first son. Hoster Tully, of course, acted as the proud and dutiful lord that he was.

 

Ned recalled how Lord Tully had tried to save face and apologize for the offense he had given towards Shara and congratulate him on his wife and newborn, yet Ned knew the man would hold this slight against Ned til his deathbed. _To this day, the Lord of Riverrun cares little to naught for me and my family_. He refuses to let the slight go. Luckily Jon Arryn had suggested that a betrothal between his eldest daughter Catelyn and Robert's brother Stannis to help seal the alliance.

 

Hoster Tully argued that his daughter should be betrothed to Robert to seal the alliance but Lord Arryn argued his suggestion. He argued that Robert was not certain to survive the war as he was the one leading the rebellion while Stannis was safe and sound at Storm's End. He was an anointed knight and was said to be just as honorable and dutiful as Ned. The Lord of Riverrun seemed to ponder the match for a moment and looked as if he would refuse the offer until Jon Arryn reminded him of Robert's popularity amongst the women of the Seven Kingdoms. Ned despised speaking of his friend Robert in such a manner but also added that Robert was known to take other women to bed even when he had been betrothed to his sister. It made Ned almost physically sick just by speaking the truth of what Robert was. Lord Tully reluctantly agreed to the match between Catelyn and Stannis Baratheon and the matter was closed.

 

 *****

 

And so here he was. Not even an hour into arriving within the castle walls before the royal squire came to him and alerted him that Robert had called for a meeting of the small council. Ned reluctantly agreed and left his children to settle into their new home while went off to handle his duties. Walking the halls of the Red Keep after so many years, it almost felt like a dream.  _More like a nightmare if I were being honest._ The last time he had walked through the halls fo the Red Keep had been when he had been making his way up north after finding his sister Lyanna and... Jon. 

 

Ned felt butterflies in his stomach as he followed the royal squire through the immense corridors. The thought that he'd be Hand of the King and be forced to leave the comfort of the north would've been ridiculous fifteen years ago.  _I was only the second son. I was never meant for this. I was never meant for any of this. It was all Brandon's._ Luckily for Ned, the small council would at least be full of some familiar and somewhat friendly faces so Ned wouldn't so out of place.  _Robert and his brothers at the least._

 

_______

 

 

 _"_ What do you mean Lord Stannis is gone?"

 

Robert's once handsome face, now red-faced with dark circles under his eyes, looked at him and shrugged. "I mean my boring, stone-faced bore of a brother decided that it was best to leave during the hour of the wolf with his wife and children and ride back to Storm's End without my knowledge nor my consent." Robert barely looked affected by the news of his brother's departure as he downed another mug of dornish wine.

 

"Ned," a comely voice spoke from the chair that lay to the left of Robert. A young man of one and twenty sat at the side of Robert with shoulder length black hair and broad shoulders with blue eyes.  _He looks just like Robert when he was a boy. Tall and handsome and charming and clean-shaven._ But the young man had sparsely any true muscle and was not as tall as Robert was. "I understand that this truly is an inconvenience, but even the king can't stop my dull excuse of a brother, Stannis, from doing whatever it is that truly pleases him."

 

"Better he be gone," the king added. "He always found a way to make these meetings boring and uninteresting. All he wished to speak of was  _ridding the city of the filth that remains_ and  _doing my duty to the realm."_ He took another large gulp from his mug.

 

 _He's already deep in his cups and the meeting has scarcely begun._ Ned gave a stiff nod and took his seat in the vacant chair to the right of Robert. Ned took a glance around the lavishly encrusted council table at the members that made up the rest of the council itself. Of course at the head of the table sat Robert with his brother Renly to his left who acted as the Master of Ships.  _Though I highly doubt the young Lord of Dragonstone knew much about sailing nor leading men into battle. It was truly a surprise that Lord Renly was the Master of_  Ships. Though in truth, it was the service of Ser Cortnay Penrose, a loyal knight of the Stormlands that did most of the work at Dragonstone.Sitting beside the Lord of Dragonstone was the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Barristan Selmy, in glittering elaborate white armor with a white cloak flowing down his back, pinned to his shoulders by ornate crowned stags. Beside the Lord Commander sat Grand Maester Pycelle who had given Ned a warm nod when he came into the room. His beard was white and long enough to reach his old chest, covering the majority of his maester's chain.

 

Beside him sat a stout man with a clean-shaven head, dressed in some of the finest silks Ned had ever seen.  _Varys, Robert's Master of Whispers._ When Ned first introduced himself to the other members, it had been Varys to first offer their congratulations to Ned for his newly awarded position and shaking his hand. H _e smelt of lavender and rosewater and his hands were as soft as Rickon's, and he was only a boy of three._ Varys was a eunuch whose reputation was known from the Wall to Dorne. Before Robert, he had served Aerys Targaryen as his Master of Whispers.  _Strange that Robert had chosen to pardon the eunuch and keep him on his council._

 

And at the end of the table sat a small man with a pointed beard and grey-green eyes. He had strands of grey running through his dark head of hair.  _This must be Robert's Master of Coin._ Petyr Baelish. Ned had heard very little of the man who had been named as Robert's Master of Coin.  _Then again, I had very little contact with Robert in the years that followed the defeat of the Greyjoys._ The only thing Ned could recall of the small man was that he, apparently very talented at finding money where there was none and that he had been fostered under Hoster Tully in his youth.  _Doubtless, if the man is loyal to Lord Hoster or not, he is not to be trusted. He was also the man that had been foolish enough to challenge my brother Brandon to a duel._

 

These were the members of King Robert the First's small council. Only one seat remained vacant, and that was the seat beside Ned that was meant for Stannis Baratheon as the Master of Laws but he was nowhere to be found. 

 

"So why has his grace called the meeting of the small council only moments after we stepped through the gates of the city," Ned inquired as he made himself as comfortable as possible in his chair.

 

"Forgive me, Ned," Robert began as he set down his cup. "I know you would rather be with your children as they settled into their new surroundings but it seems our troubles continue to grow by the day." Robert was handed a rolled parchment by his brother and handed it to Ned. "It's from Pentos."

 

"It seems that the exiled Princess Daenerys Targaryen has wed Khal Drogo, a horselord of the Dothraki," Varys chimed in a sweet voice.

 

"And," Ned began, "what of it? Shall we send a gift?" He somewhat confused as to why this bit of news deserved a meeting of the small council.

 

"Hahaha," the king cackled through his thick black beard. "A knife, mayhaps? And a bold man to wield it?"

 

"Your Grace, what trouble is a girl of four and ten to you when she has little to no allies at her back? I assure you that she is no threat to your reign in the slightest." Ned's question did not seem to please the king.

 

"My Lord Hand," Varys said, "She, along with her older brother could be perceived as potential claimants to his grace's throne if they ever grew bold enough to try. She also has a seasoned and well-respected commander and knight at her side, Ser Gerold Hightower." At the mention of Ser Gerold's name, Ned felt his heart stop for a split second before resuming. "And if rumors are to be believed, now has a hundred thousand riders at her back and could invade Westeros at any time."

 

"But need I remind his Grace, my Lords," Ned said as he gestured to all those present, "that the dothraki are nomadic people that do not dare cross the Narrow Sea on account of their beliefs. They will not cross for Daenerys Targaryen let alone Viserys, your Grace," Ned turned and looked Robert in his bright blue eyes, "I assure you that she is no threat, especially when they are on the other side of the world."

 

"And what if the Targaryen girl were to fall pregnant with this savage's child? Baelish asked carelessly. "Do believe that the Dothraki will sit idly by when the boy takes the place of his savage father and decides to reclaim Westeros and call his men to action? What then?"

 

"The girl is not with child, is she?" Ser Barristan finally spoke after long moments of silence.

 

"Not that we have knowledge of," Varys spoke. "But Jorah Mormont ensures us that if and when it happens, he will inform us immediately."

 

"Jorah Mormont?" Ned scoffed. "The man I caught trying to sell men into slavery and then fled when it came time to face justice? He is your informer. Robert, I truly hope you did not put all your trust in a man without honor."

 

"So you would have us do nothing then?" Robert turned to face Ned fully and gave him a piercing look.

 

Ned sighed in frustration. "No, your Grace. I would counsel patience. The girl is only fourteen and is scarcely a threat. Do not risk dishonoring yourself by drenching your hands with her blood. The blood of a child I might add."

 

"Lord Stark speaks the truth, my King," Ser Barristan interjected. "The Mad King showed no empathy nor repentance for his horrendous crimes. And I know for a fact that you are no Mad King. The girl is not worth worrying over."

 

Robert exhaled rough and loudly before rising from his seat and signaling for Ned and Ser Barristan to follow him while the rest remained. The rest of the members looked just as confused as Ned did yet none questioned the king's motives. Ned and Ser Barritan followed the almost titanic Robert through the large corridors of Maegor's Holdfast until they reached the entrance to the godswood of the Red Keep. Unlike the rest of the city, the smell of piss and shit was not strong there as it was throughout the rest of the city. Ned followed Robert until they came to a clearing where a path made by cobblestones led through the forested area. Robert signaled for Ser Barristan to fall behind and to let he and Ned talk. "Patience and honor you counsel me, huh?" Robert gave a dry laugh. "I swear to the gods that if you weren't my oldest and most trusted friend, I would've taken my warhammer and smashed your head for suggesting to me to show mercy to any Targaryens. But I know that you hold no particular love for them... especially after what Rhaegar  _did_  to your sister."

 

Ned's lips pursed at the mention of love for the Targaryens.  _Oh, Robert. If only you knew and could understand..._

 

The duo walked through the vegetation that grew amongst the godswood. It was not as sacred or as silent as the godswood at Winterfell had been, but at least it was something. At least Robert had called for all those present in the godswood to leave before they began to speak.

 

"But perhaps you speak the correct truth?" Robert continued. "Or perhaps you speak the obviously false one? As of now, I can't say either is a hundred percent wrong or right. Only time can tell at this point. But Ned I warn you now that if news arrives that the Targaryen girl is with child, I promise you that you will not like the commands that leave my mouth." Ned opened his mouth to protest but Robert cut him off before he could. "No! It's done. It's settled. _"_ Ned knew he could argue with his stubborn and proud friend so he gave him a curt nod. "Good."

 

They walked in silence for what seemed like forever. The sound of Ser Barristan heavy armor could be heard following with every step Ned and Robert took. They came to a clearing and stood before a half-wall where the godswood looked out over the training yard that lied in the lower regions of the castle. From where they stood, they could see directly into the training yard as well as the surrounding areas such as the Tower of the Hand and the White Sword Tower.

 

Robert rested a great portion of his heavy self on the wall and looked down into the training yard. The training seemed almost abandoned.  _Almost_. The exception was for two people that stood near the center of the courtyard swinging what seemed to be sparring swords at each other. The taller was clearly far more seasoned than the shorter who seemed to have his blows deflected every time he swung at the taller man.

 

"Hey, Ned," Robert called out, though there had been no need for it as he stood right beside him. "Isn't that your bastard there, training with the Sword of the Morning?"

 

Ned realized that the only two people in the training yard were, in fact, his  _son_ and his good-brother. "Aye, that is," was all Ned said as he turned his attention once more at Jon and Ser Arthur. Ned watched as Jon swung his sword with such intensity and fervor. He wore simple armor made up of black boiled leather and a grey jerkin underneath. He had chosen not wear a helm, allowing his dark, almost black curls bounce around with every movement. Ser Arthur, on the other hand, wore his personal armor with a breastplate and mail shirt covering his torso. He wore his worn his scratched and dented steel vambraces on his arms along with steel shoulder pads that were engraved with the shooting star and ancestral sword of House Dayne. He as well had chosen not to train with his usual greathelm.

 

Every slash and hack and strike that Jon threw, Arthur was able to counter or parry with ease, yet the boy did not break. "Your bastard's good," Robert commented. Amazingly, Robert's voice was full of admiration and somewhat kind as he spoke. "Very good. He moves like a true warrior. No doubt it helps to have someone like the Sword of the Morning training him firsthand." Ned nodded and continued to watch Jon. "Far better than my coward son Joffrey. This boy," Robert gestured to Jon who was now tasked with fending off the furious strikes of Ser Arthur,  "would Joffrey quivering in fear and running back under Cersei's skirts." Robert chuckled lightly.

 

A moment of silence passed as the pair of old friends stood and watched Jon continue on with his training. "You never told me who you bastard's mother was?"

 

The statement appeared out of nowhere and for a moment, Ned felt winded. He took a deep breath and said, "Nor will I." He kept his voice as calm and collected as possible.

 

Ned heard Robert sigh slowly. "We were at war, Ned. None of us knew if we were going to return." Ned shook Robert's hand away from his shoulder, allowing it to fall to Robert's side. "No one blames you, Ned." His voice was soft and kind. "Even your dornish wife think's of him as her own and I even heard your bastard refer to her as 'mother.'If she had been anything other than dornish, they would've scorned and condemned the bastard just for his mere existence. Besides... the boy seems like a strong fighter and a good strapping lad." 

 

 Ned could feel his friend's eyes stare him down and watch him carefully. But Ned would not meet his gaze or Robert would take notice of the anguish in Ned's eyes.  _Promise me._  

 

Ned swallowed the lump in his throat and sighed loudly. "Your right. He is a good kid." Ned hoped to end the topic of conversation as swiftly as possible.

 

"Yet that raises the question as to why you never had him legitimized," Robert prodded as they continued to watch Jon and Arthur. "You know you could've come to me at any point in time and asked me to legitimize the boy and make him a Stark. No one in the realm would've batted an eye. Even your wife wouldn't have protested the act, just by the way she treats the boy."

 

"I have my reasons, Robert," Ned said. " And you know as well as I do that legitimization, even to this day, is a rare sight and not done oft." Ned's voice was low and did what he could to keep his sadness to seep into it. "Ever since Aegon the Unworthy legitimized his bastards, the entire practice has been frowned upon. Every time a legitimized bastard becomes powerful or diligent in any small way or semblance, others begin to panic and assume the worst." Ned took a deep breath and watched as Jon countered a strike from Ser Arthur and acted quickly to land a strike of his own.  _He fights so much like Lyanna. So much fire in his movements and so much passion._  "And as of now... Jon has shown he has no quarrel with his status and no one back in Winterfell had treated him any different so I saw no need. Nor do I see one now." 

 

_If only you knew the true reason._

 

 His friend seemed to sense his tone as he ended talk of such things."Fine, fine, fine, but mayhaps, hehehe... he'll make a fine knight... one day," Robert said. "And perhaps you'll see him as one of the knights in my Kingsguard. That is... if I haven't drunk or eaten or whored myself to an early grave by then. Gods know that my current Kingsguard puts the whole idea of the order to shame." Robert scoffed as he listed the members of his Kingsguard who he believed were not truly worthy of the title. From the ugly and short Ser Boros Blount to the cruel and average Ser Meryn Trant to the man who had only been named to the order for political favor, Ser Preston Greenfield. "The only reason that yellow-haired fool is on the Kingsguard was to appease the wishes of the mighty Ser Tywin Lannister." Robert let out a boisterous dry laugh that rang through the entirety of the castle grounds. "I may not be a clever man nor a learned one at that, but I know a rat when I see one. His family are bannermen to House Lannister. I could sure use an eventual replacement for him."

 

Ned looked at his old friend queerly for how he spoke of Ser Preston.  _Does he mean to have him killed? Would Robert go to such lengths?_ As if reading Ned's thoughts, Robert denied the notion, reassuring Ned that no harm would come to Ser Preston. Not by his hand or command at least. Ned and Robert turned back to the training where they found both Jon and Ser Arthur watching them for a moment before continuing on.  _They must've heard Robert's roar of a laugh cut fill the air. "_ But if... if I am ever in need of replacements for my Kingsguard and your bastard continues to train just like he's doing now... he could prove to be worthy of such an honor," Robert continued. "Imagine the face of Tywin Lannister when I name a northern bastard to my Kingsguard and dismissed his poor excuse of a western knight."

 

"I'd imagine it'd be the same scowl that he usually gives when he is in the company of just about anyone," Ned commented.

 

"Hahahaha!!!" Robert's laugh once again traveled throughout the castle, even going as far as to grab the attention of Jon and Ser Arthur once more. "Who would've thought the honorable Ned Stark would be heard jesting about the Old Lion of Lannister. That's the Ned I remember, the one who was adventurous and willing to bed tavern wenches and scale the Eyrie. Though I don't recall you ever did the former."

 

They watched from behind the parapet as Jon and Ser Arthur continued their training. Before long, the sun had begun to set and the breeze from the Blackwater had turned cool.

 

"Forgive me, your Grace, but I believe it is time for me to return to my family. It will be time for supper soon and I wish to see them off before they go to bed." Robert gave him a nod and gave him a great bear of a hug, lifting him from the ground.

 

"Thank you, Ned," Robert whispered into his ear before putting Ned back down. "I mean it. I know how hard it is to leave your family and your home, especially at a time when your son has suffered a tragic accident."

 

Ned gave him a final nod and a warm smile before turning around and making his way to the Tower of the Hand.

 

 

**Jon**

 

 

 _It seemed that the capital and the south had not been what everyone had talked it up to be._ That had been Jon's only thought as he laid his grey eyes on the high walls surrounding the enormous red castle in the distance. It was truly a sight to behold due to the castle's sheer size and color, but other than that, nothing else seemed to really catch Jon's attention. The inside had been no better.

 

The streets were narrow and crowded. The cobblestones that filled the streets were rough and in need of refurbishing. The air around the streets and, therefore, the people smelled like piss and shit. It was hot and musty, and it did not help that the people that called the city home and crowded the streets, had their eyes on the retinue of northmen making their way through the streets towards the Red Keep. The sun shined down on the city without relent. Jon didn't like that. The sun had him constantly drenched in his own sweat. It had gotten bad enough that he began to tie his hair in a bun. That at least helped to his neck and face from becoming slick with his own sweat. The winds from the Blackwater had been the one thing that kept the heat of the sun in check yet it did nothing to help the foul stench of the city.

 

The moment his father's household had stepped through the gates of the Red Keep, his father was immediately pulled away by his duties as Hand of the King. The king and his retinue had barely arrived a half hour before them, so it seemed strange that a meeting had been called so suddenly. With his father's departure, Jon and his sisters were left with acquainting themselves with their new home. The Tower of Hand was a large and tall structure that had stood for three-hundred years since the castle had begun to be built by the  _Conqueror_. It wasn't too long into their arrival when the question arose about what do to about the direwolves. Clarissa and Arya, with their wolves right behind them, exploded out of the litter when Jory suggested that the wolves be chained and kept in the stables at all times, far away from any person or animal. Both girls were on the verge of shouting their heads off at Jory for such a remark, but before they could, their Uncle Arthur spoke up.

 

"Girls, girls, calm down," Ser Arthur said in a soothing voice. He stepped towards the sisters and placed a friendly hand on each of their shoulders and began to lead them into the tower. Jon dismounted his horse and followed after the trio. "On our way here, your father informed me that he would allow all three of you to keep your companions at your bedsides and off a chain as long as they do not leave the area that surrounds the tower. If one of you must ever venture outside the gates of the Red Keep, the wolves must be chained as to not risk them sneaking off and causing mischief amongst the smallfolk." The girls looked displeased once their uncle mentioned the word "chained," but it made sense. "Need I remind both you girls that we are no longer in Winterfell. Your father does not rule here as he did back north. If someone were to get hurt by the wolves, then it wouldn't be long before the people called for the death of each wolf."

 

Clarissa and Arya nodded simultaneously. Their uncle nodded and turned and left as to help bring their things up. Jon watched his uncle depart but didn't realize that he hadn't noticed the wolves had followed them inside the tower and once the group reached a set of doors, each leading to a separate bedchamber, they broke off and followed their master. Nymeria and her golden eyes followed little Arya to her new chambers, Lady and her yellow eyes went with Clarissa, leaving Jon and Ghost to make their way into their bedchambers.

 

The room was elegantly decorated with golden velvet drapes over the large window in his room, a myrish rug covered almost the entirety of the room, the walls decorated with different and exotic wall hangings, and sitting in the corner of the room, was a featherbed made for one, covered in fine silks and blankets. The treck south had been exhausting, which made the sight of the bed look all that more appealing. But before Jon could throw himself onto the bed and bury himself in the covers, Ghost pounced out of nowhere and laid down on the bed, staking his silent claim on the bed.

 

"Really, boy," Jon sighed. The albino wolf whined before settling back into the bed and falling fast asleep. "Fine. Take it... for now." Jon went and gathered his sword and boiled leather armor and headed for the training yard.  _I figure it's best that I squeeze in a bit of training before the sun is completely gone._

 

Jon made his way through the enormous halls of the Red Keep, losing himself twice or so before finding the way to the training yard. Jon went to the armory and took a blunted sword before moving to the yard and begin sparring with a wooden dummy. The yard seemed almost abandoned just by the lack of people present. Every now and then, Jon would see a servant or squire or lady walk through or around the yard, going about their duties. It wasn't too long before his Uncle Arthur found him and turned his sparring session into a training session.

 

As the minutes and perhaps hours passed, no one else made to join them in the training yard, so they continued on without interruption.  _Well, that was until the sound of a thunderous laugh rang through the air._ He and his uncle stopped almost immediately and looked around, searching for the source of the laugh. After some rather lackluster searching, Jon found the source, atop one of the red walls that overlooked the training yard. There were two shaps at the top. One was rather large and rotund while the other was shorter and leaner. The larger one wore a large black beard along with long black hair with a golden crown atop it.  _It's father and King Robert._ They seemed to have been watching as he and Ser Arthur trained. His uncle called for Jon and him to continue so they did. Jon did what he could so he would not appear so unskilled before his father. He made sure his swings were precise and accurate. After some trying and another boisterous laugh later, Jon was able to finally get a clean hit on Ser Arthur's armor.

 

The sun had begun to set when Jon and his uncle called it quits. Torches throughout the keep were lit and servants passed by with platters of food in hand, coming and going from every which way. A few of them made their way to the Tower of the Hand, no doubt intending to lay out the food for him and his father's household for the night.

 

That had been over almost a moon turn's past. Since then, Jon had fallen into a rhythm for his day-to-day activities. Most days, he spent training with Ser Arthur as well as run the errands that a squire was meant to do. In truth, Jon had been training with Ser Arthur for years, since he was old enough to wield a practice sword, but it was only recently that his uncle had asked him to become his squire. Jon had been reluctant at first, because at the time, Jon had been contemplating going to the wall and joining the Night's Watch. But all that changed when Ser Arthur came to him and asked him to become his squire as well as act as a protector to his two younger sisters. Jon accepted eagerly knowing that he would be squiring for his uncle, the Sword of the Morning.

 

On the days that his uncle did not have him run the typical errands carried out by a squire, he was usually training him in combat. Recently, Jon had begun to pester his uncle to teach him the basics on how to wield dual swords. His uncle denied him outright, claiming that Jon was not at that level yet, but mentioned how he showed promise. Once Jon was silenced, Ser Arthur took the opportunity to show him what it truly meant to wield two blades at once. Jon sat back and watched how his uncle perfected the skill. The way Ser Arthur swung his swords was comparable to that of a song. His movements were graceful and his strikes were precise.  _It was as if he was Ser Ryam Redwyne reborn or mayhaps better_.  _Very impressive for a man closing in on his forties_. But what did Jon expect? He was the  _Sword of the Morning._ No man alive could match his prowess with a blade _. Well... mayhaps a one or two could come close._

 

During one of Jon's training sessions,  _one_ of the few swordsmen he thought who could match his uncle in skill and prowess had decided to drop by and train with them for the day. Ser Barristan Selmy. Or Barristan  _the Bold_ as the realm knew him as. The name he had earned when he donned a set of borrowed armor and entered a tourney at the tender age of ten. He entered a tourney that was being held at Blackhaven as a mystery knight but was unhorsed by Prince Duncan Targaryen. The prince had been so taken with the young boy's boldness that he named him _Barristan the Bold_. His legend only grew from then on; being knighted at sixteen, joining the Kingsguard in his twenty-third year, unhorsed Prince Duncan Targaryen and Ser Duncan the Tall in a tourney held in King's Landing. Though one of his most famous deeds that further cemented his skill was when he slew Maelys t _he Monstrous_ in the War of the Ninepenny Kings, ending the fifth and final Blackfyre rebellion. With Maelys' death, that ended the male line of House Blackfyre.

 

On the days that Ser Barristan decided to join him on his training sessions, Jon felt the training was at its most intense. And on the nights that followed, he felt the most exhausted. His arms would feel like freshly churned butter and his palms would be covered in blisters and bruises. But he knew that it would pay off one day. He was being taught by two of the best swordsmen the seven kingdoms had ever seen. They were just as deadly, if not more than the famed Ser Ryam Redwyne or Prince Aemon the Dragonknight _._ Maybe Jon could rise to that status one day.  _One day, mayhaps,_   _regardless of my surname. Bastard or not._  

 

Whenever Ser Arthur gave Jon a day or two to rest his body, he spent the spare time with Clarissa on some days. But most rest days, Jon spent with Arya. For the first fortnight in King's Landing, she and Jon spent most of their time together, exploring the city, talking with a few locals, and the occasional sparring session. Their uncle wasn't all too against the idea of allowing his youngest niece to train in arms, though it was only on occasion as their lord father was not too keen on the idea of Arya learning sword fighting. It had been that way until a raven arrived from Winterfell with the great news that their younger brother Bran had awoken from his sleep and now seemed healthy. The news had been rather enlightening considering that when they had first left Winterfell, Bran was thought to die eventually. The parchment went on to say that Bran recalled nothing of his fall when asked. The news about Bran becoming a cripple was saddening but just the mere fact that Bran would live to see another day brought good news to the entire household. 

 

Recently though, he and Arya had not been spending as much time together as they once did. It turned out that Lord Stark did in fact, listen to the wishes of his daughters. He had brought a foreign master to the capital to instruct Arya in the art of "water dancing."  _Water Dancing... what kind of bloody dancing is that? Surely Arya would hate it the moment her grey eyes set their sight on the instructor._ Jon scoffed at the idea of his youngest sister learning to dance, even less so as something as ridiculously named as  _water dancing. She'll probably end up irritating the man and annoying him all the way back to where ever it was he was from._

 

Jon, at first, had not bothered trying to obtain a glimpse at the man that would be on the opposite end of Arya's death stares and whines. But as the days and weeks passed by, Jon curiosity grew more and more. Day after day, once Jon finished his training with his uncle, he would return to his chambers to bathe, only to find Arya in very queer positions. Some days, Jon would find her standing on one leg at the top of the stairs and would do that for hours on end. Other days, he would find her running up and down the giant halls of the Red Keep, through the stables and kitchens, as if searching frantically for something. There had even been times when Jon would be spending time with Clarissa and her friend Jeyne, and out of nowhere, Arya would come flying by, chasing a small cat around the halls of the Red Keep, distracting him from whatever it was he was doing. This went on for about a fortnight before Jon's curiosity finally boiled over.

 

So, one day when his uncle had given him the day to himself, Jon took the opportunity to find out what was truly happening with Arya's dance lessons. Jon knew where it was that her lessons were held; in the small hall located in the Tower of the Hand where their household usually broke their fast. It was just past midday when Jon made his way towards the hall and snuck into the room and tried to get a glimpse at the ensuing lesson. Jon hid behind a thick marble pillar near the corner of the room where the sun's rays did not illuminate. He studied the scene before him.  _This is "water dancing?"_

 

Jon was in awe at what he was witnessing. He watched as a small man with a set of curly dark hair and neatly trimmed beard swung a slender wooden sword elegant and gracefully at his little sister. He moved with such grace that Jon thought to compare the man to his Uncle Arthur in his movements. His footwork was impeccable and definite. The way in which he swung the slim sword, it seemed as if it was an extension of his true arm. The swings that he took at Arya were all precise, each hitting where they were intended to. Every now and then Arya would move her own practice sword quick enough to block one of the slight man's hits. Her moves were not as elegant but she was quick and adaptive.  _She almost seems like me when I'm training with Uncle. She quickly learns from her mistakes and tries to improve on them rather than risk making it again._ Each time Arya is able to improve on the sparing before, the short man praised her improvement before adding what else she could do to improve her movements. Jon could not say how long he watched the two go at it, but he did not care.  _This is... intriguing._

 

"That is enough for today, Arya child," the man said in an accent Jon had never heard. Arya nodded and wiped the droplets of sweat that ran down her forehead. "Our lesson for the day has come to an end. We will continue your training on the morrow at midday."

 

Just as Jon began to thank the old gods for the lesson ending and being able to rise form his crouched position, the foreign man's voice rang through the hall...

 

"Arya child, do you believe our  _guest_  enjoyed the demonstration?" The voice was loud yet as lithe as he'd ever heard voice could be.

 

Jon rose from his spot and stepped out of the corner, only to see his sister with a cocky grin on her face, the wooden sword draped over her shoulder, and the curly-haired man with a half smile on his face, his arms crossed behind his back. 

 

"Wha-" Jon began but could not finish.

 

"Well... did you?" Arya asked impatiently, the smile on her face never receding.

 

It took a moment for Jon to find his voice and summon the courage to speak. "You knew I was there?"

 

"Arya child, tell him the truth of it," was all the small man said.

 

"Syrio and I heard you the moment you stepped into the room." Jon's eyes were wide and he felt his face blush. "You're very loud with your steps, even though Uncle says that you are light and quick on your feet in your lessons with him." Jon felt his blush deepen as he listened to his sister explain to him how they heard him even when he did his best to remain silent. "I'm going to have to tell Uncle to go harder on you, Jon. Mayhaps that's why you still can't beat him. I mean, gods Jon, Uncle is almost forty. FORTY!"

 

Jon knew he would not hear the end of this from Arya. She would tease him relentlessly until the end of time.  _Others take me._ Jon thanked the Syrio for allowing him to view the lesson and agreed to walk Arya back to her chambers. Before they left the hall, the short man invited Jon to join Arya and him in a lesson in water dancing. Jon pondered over the offer. On most days, Jon usually ended his days covered in dirt and bruises from his lessons with Ser Arthur while the rest of his days were filled with the jobs and duties of a squire. He was inclined to turn down the offer, but as he looked to Arya standing beside him, her eyes locked onto him, unwavering and eager.  _She wants me to say yes. She wants me to train with her. Of course, she does. She's always wanted to train with me... and Vorian and Bran and Rickon and Uncle. It would devastate her if I were to say no, even if I'm tired most days._ He gave the man a polite nod and thanking him for the offer.

 

_____

 

The lesson had pretty much gone how Jon had expected it to. Arya seemed to best him at every turn. Every swing Jon took, Arya had been quick to dodge it, every step Jon took, Arya was quicker to counter and adjust, and when Jon grew frustrated and hacked the practice sword at his little sister, she quickly twirled away from the blow and landed the tip of her sword on the nape of Jon's neck. The following day when he woke, Jon felt as if he'd slept a day and a night after his one and only lesson with Arya's dancing master.

 

It had only been recently that Arya truly began enjoying the capital. Most of that due to her new dancing master, though Jon liked to think that him spending time with her was one of the few things that made her days enjoyable before Syrio. But if anyone could have been described as elated about their arrival in the capital, it would be Clarissa Stark.

 

From the moment they had set foot in the capital, she loved every single part of it, aside from the march through the slums of Flea Bottom. Clarissa had integrated herself into the heart of King's Landing. She loved it all. The view of the Red Keep, the castle where dozens of kings and queens have called home. The court was filled with knights in shining armor and high lords in beautiful and expensive finery. She loved how elegantly the ladies of the court dressed, even some bastards of other houses dressed better than inhabitants of Winterfell. Or so she says. She and Jeyne Poole spent there days in the gardens of the Red Keep, talking to high lords, comely knights, and elegant ladies.

 

Jon wasn't the closest with Clarissa but that did not deter them from spending time together on occasion. Since their arrival in the capital, Rissa had made it known how she wished that Jon would behave and dress more like the son of a high lord than just a simple bastard. Jon at times would cringe internally when Clarissa called him that but he knew she never meant it as a slight. The same with how Vorian never meant it that way either. Jon gave in eventually and allowed Clarissa to enlighten him on the do's and don't's of high lords. On a separate occasion, Clarissa and Jeyne had led Jon to one of the most well-known tailors in the city and had him measured. The day turned out to be a more "entertaining" event than Jon previously thought. He could not help but scoff at every flamboyant suggestion offered to him by his sister and her pretty friend.

 

When they returned to their apartment, Arya having already finished with her lessons for the day and had bathed already as her hair was still somewhat wet and watched as Jon came in, dressed in fine silks and colorful finery. It didn't take long for Arya to break out into a cackle as she criticized each and every layer of clothing that Jon wore. Rissa would stand and listen to their sister comment on everything before storming out of the room and back to her own chambers in a fit of rage. Jon and Arya would be left to laugh at their sister's anger, knowing full well that she would get over it by the morrow. But doubtless, he knew what had to be done.

 

Jon picked up Arya and carried her all the way to Rissa's bedchamber so they could apologize. Arya tried her best to squirm free but Jon was having none of it as his hold on her tightened and she eventually submitted. Their night ended with Arya apologizing for her remarks of Jon's clothes and Clarissa's taste for the finer things and Jon apologized for laughing along with Arya. Rissa seemed to appreciate the gesture and forgive with a hug and a kiss each. Jon didn't mind it so much but saw Arya make a face when Rissa placed a kiss on her cheek.

 

When Jon arrived to break his fast the following morning, he noticed his father speaking with both Clarissa and Arya as they sat at the Lord's table. Jon quickly took his seat beside his father and asked what they were speaking about. His father turned to him and told him of the impending tournament that was being held in honor of Lord Stark's appointment as Hand of the King. Rissa was full of smiles and endlessly giddy while Arya seemed disinterested in the news. Jon noticed his father's tone when he spoke about the tournament.  _He cares naught for the tourney. He thinks it a folly and a waste of time._  Yet it seemed that it would happen regardless of his father's approval or lack thereof. 

 

 

_____

 

 "You should compete," Ser Arthur said simply as he, Jon, Clarissa, and five other Stark guards walked down the Street of Flower, hoping to find some exotic baked goods. 

"In the jousting competition? Jon gave his uncle a dazed look. "What do I have to gain if I should enter this tourney, hmm?" He asked as he looked from left to right, taking in his surroundings.

 

"Come on, Jon," Clarissa added. Her grasp on his arm tightened as she began to plead her case. "Uncle Arthur is right. When was the last time a northman was able to best southron knights and high lords at their own sport."

 

Jon looked with a raised brow. "I thought you just  _adored_  these  _southron_ knights and comely high lords. Why would you want me to go against them and potentially unhorse them all?"

 

Clarissa gave him a playful shrug, causing their uncle to laugh softly. "First of all... you think highly of yourself, don't you, Jon?" Jon gave a slight shrug as they continued down the deliciously smelling street. "And secondly, you are my brother, and bastard or not, I love you regardless, which means that I wish the best for you. And this is a great opportunity for you." Jon gave her another questioning look as if not believing that was the true reason. "And I also overheard how many of the knights and lords in the Red Keep have talked about the north. They speak of how apparently Uncle Arthur's skill with a sword and lance has diminished since he traveled north as well as about how no northmen could match the prowess of an anointed southron knight."

 

"But I still don't understand why you would want me to enter? Rumor has it that your betrothed, the Crown Prince is to enter the competition. Why would you want me to unhorse the heir to the throne when it may only gain me more unwanted ice-cold stares from the Queen and serve to sour your relationship with him?

 

"Joffrey won't enter the joust," Clarissa said in a deflated voice. "He said that he was above such nonsense and that he wouldn't dare risk his own safety for the enjoyment of the realm."

 

Jon heard Ser Arthur scoff as Rissa went on about the prince.  _He's not a fan of the prince. Is anyone? "_ And I'm guessing you were hoping he would enter and win the joust and crown you the Queen of Love & Beauty." Rissa did not deny Jon's claim and instead turned her attention to the vendors they were passing by.

 

"Well I've been known to be quite alright with a lance," Jon said in a low voice.

 

"I thought Vorian was better with a lance than you were," Rissa replied.

 

"Aye, he is." Jon shrugged as they group continued to take in the vendors on the side of the streets with their makeshift carts filled with baked goods and colorful candy. "I've always been better with a sword than a lance. Mayhaps I should enter the melee instead of the joust. Perhaps that is the better way for me to make a name for myself."

 

"And do you truly believe Lord Stark would allow you to enter such a competition, with the likes of Thoros of Myr and his fabled flaming sword and perhaps the Mountain competing in it as well." His uncle scoffed at the notion. "Your father cares too much for your life to allow you to enter such a contest at such a young age. Thoros of Myr is a respected fighter. He was the first one through the breach during the siege of Pyke and has won multiple melees in the past. And Gregor Clegane's reputation speaks for itself."

 

"I am five and ten, a man grown, Uncle... and as I recall, Ser Barristan Selmy once entered a tourney as a mystery knight at the age of ten and gained the respect of Prince Duncan, even though he lost in the end."

 

"Yes but... that was a jousting competition where the stakes are not as high and the rewards were just as coveted," his uncle retorted as they continued down the street.

 

"Fi-" Jon didn't get a chance to respond as the sound of screams and steel clashing against stone could be heard emanating from an alleyway they were just passing.

 

Without hesitation, Jon launched himself and ran down the darkened narrow street to find the source of the muffled sounds. "Jon... WAIT!!!" the sounds of his uncle's voice ran through the air down the alley yet Jon did not stop. He heard his uncle's voice fade as he continued down the alleyway. "Stay... Clarissa... my command," was all Jon heard as he went on.

 

Jon ran down the lightly shadow-covered backstreet, turning from left to right to left and so on until Jon lost track of where he was until the muffled sounds began to grow louder the closer he got. Instinctively, Jon's hand flew to his sword and drew it in case he would need it. He slowed his pace as soon as the sounds grew loud enough to guess that he was very close. Up ahead, there seemed to be two shapes moving about.  The light from the sun barely lit the narrow alleyway but illuminated it enough to reveal the persons in question. One of them wore a long yellow-gold cloak over his back to match his elaborate yellow-gold armor. He wore no heavy breastplate, only dyed boiled leather over gold chainmail.  _He's part of the City Watch. What's he doing then?_ The gold cloak held a dagger in his hand and held the hand up to the second person. The person was smaller and lightly dressed. As Jon steeped closer, he noticed something about the second person.  _It's a girl._

 

She was shorter and pinned up against the side of the wall. The man held the dagger up to her throat and continued to pull at her dress. Jon watched as he leaned into and brought his lips to hers, only for the girl to pull away and spit in his face. The gold cloak responded by bringing the back of his hand down on the side of her face, causing the girl to whimper in pain. Jon's free hand curled up into a fist and felt his anger rise as he as he began to walk faster to the pair. As he got closer, their sounds grew louder. The man's voice, in particular, could be heard as clear as day. 

 

"Do that again bitch and I'll cut off your nipples and send them to your whore mother to let her know what happens when she don't pay us our fee," the man said. "So now your gonna stand here and let me fuck ya till I cum so we can smooth over this week's payment." The girl in question struggled to get free but the man's grip on her did not loosen. "Now girl don-"

 

"Let her go!" Jon shouted as he came to stand only a few feet away from the pair. The gold cloak immediately turned his attention from the girl to Jon and spit in his direction.

 

"This don't concern you, boy," the man seethed as he pointed his dagger at Jon and placed his forearm over the girl's throat, keeping her in place. "Run along and go back to whatever piss alley you came from before I gut you like the gutter rat you are. If you too blind to notice, I'm a part of the City Watch which means I keep the peace. So get the fuck out of here before I throw your arse in the black cells of the Red Keep."

 

"Let her go!" Jon demanded as he took as a step closer and raised his sword and pointed at the city watchman. "I'm not going to ask you again."

 

"Northerner," the man said with a chuckle following his words. "What the fuck is a northerner doing this far from the north? You part of the king's hand's household? The man spat at the notion. "Don't matter." the man slapped the girl once more and threw her to the ground and turned to face Jon fully. "Probably some northern whore's bastard son from some goat-fucking village. I'm gonna teach you a lesson boy to mind your fucking business when a man of the City Watch orders you to."

 

The man's free hand went to the hilt of his longsword, but before he could draw it fully, Jon lunged at him, his sword making contact with the man's dagger. The dagger was knocked from his hand and the man stumbled back in astonishment at Jon's quickness. The man quickly went fro his sword once more and drew it fully and pointed it at Jon.

 

"You got some balls, you northern fucker," the man said as he lunged at Jon. Jon quickly dodged the man's first hack and brought the hilt of his sword to the side of the man's helm and made contact with it. The City Watchman stumbled back again, rubbing the side of his face where Jon's sword made contact. "Quick little cunt!"

 

The man swung his sword from left to right to which Jon brought his sword to block the first swing. Jon parried the first swing and dodged the second, causing the man's sword to drag along the walls of the alleyway. The sound of steel kissing stone caused Jon to cringe for a moment. The moment seemed to be long enough for the man's mailed fist to make contact with the side of Jon's face. Jon stumbled backward, causing him to fall to the ground, just barely holding onto his sword. The gold cloak went into a trot and brought his sword up above his head and brought it down on Jon. But Jon was quick enough to raise his sword in time for his sword to make contact with Jon's. The man continued to hack at Jon, each following strike brought down with more power than the last. Jon felt his arm begin to tire with each passing blow. He felt his hand begin to falter and thought of what it would be like to die in a dark back alley in King's Landing.

 

_I'm going to die. I'm going to die in some piss-soaked alley while trying to do the right thing. I'm going to die trying to fight off some corrupt arsehole. I'm going to die defending some girl who was being threatened. Would father be proud? Would he mourn me? Would Lady Stark? What about Vorian and Clarissa and Bran and Rickon and Arya? Little Arya? Would I be buried in the crypts of Winterfell? No... I'm a Snow, not a Stark. My place is not there._

 

Before he could continue he near-death thoughts, he attention went back to the man in front of him. He had seemed to stop his hacks and was leaning up against the side of the wall with his back turned to Jon and one of his hands placed on his underarm. He was shrieking and grunting in pain as his hand grabbed at something in his axilla. A stream of blood oozed from his underarm, covering his side with black blood. The man's sight was focused on his wound, keeping him from turning his attention to Jon.

 

Jon acted quickly, raising his sword and thrusting it through the man's back. The sword had been forged only a fortnight or so before Jon had left for the capital by Mikken, the smith at Winterfell, now protruded from the man's chest. The tip of the sword slick with dark blood. The man grunted loudly before his body went limp and fell forwards as Jon pulled his sword from the man, allowing his body to crash down in a dark puddle. Jon let out a loud sigh of relief as he took a moment to catch his breath. Once the moment passed, he quickly remembered why this happened. Jon quickly ran to the girl, who had curled up into a ball and was leaning against the wall with her face buried in her hands. 

 

"Hey, hey," Jon said in a soft voice, taking one of her hands in his. Jon noticed how soft her skin was. As Jon' eyes went from the girl's hand to the rest of her, he noticed the color of her skin.  _Beautiful and dark-skinned, as black as polished jet,_ Jon thought. She was covered in dirt and mud and blood yet she still smelled faintly like lavender and rosewater. The top of her dress was torn almost completely, exposing the top of her small breasts, making Jon blush. He quickly moved to remove his doublet and hand it to the girl who accepted it eagerly. "What's your name, my lady?" he asked, trying to avert his gaze from her breasts. As he turned his head from her exposed breasts, his eyes landed on the girl's hair. It was long and black and thick and beautiful. The light cast down from the sun reflected the sheen of her black hair. Her hair was tied back with thin golden bands, causing her hair to fall to the middle of her back.

 

The dark-skinned girl lifted her face from her hands and locked eyes with Jon.  _Her eyes are wide and dark yet rich and kind._ "Yaya," the girl responded in a soft voice. "My name is Alayaya."

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and questions are welcomed.


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